?:-^ 


mr) 


^^^^^^^ 


^c^^i^6.^^ 


qMc 


^^TSDSllPSc^^ 


JLo^o 


rl^^A'^m^. 


../^ 


S  T  O  N, 


FRIENDSHIP'S    GIFT: 


SOUYET^IR 


FOR 


MDCCCXLVIII. 


EDITED   BY   WALTER   PERCIVAL 


BOSTON: 
PUBLISriED  BY    JOHN    P.   HILL. 

1848. 


fWjll 
?7<o 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1847, 

BY  JOHN  P.  HILL, 

in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


Abneh  Forbes,  Printer, 
37  Cornhill.  ' 


PREFACE. 

In  commending  the  first  volume  of  a  new  Annual 
to  the  good  will  of  the  public,  the  editor  deems  it 
necessary  to  say  but  a  very  few  words.  The  book  is 
composed  of  articles  written  by  those  on  whom  the 
world  has  long  ago  placed  its  stamp  of  approval ;  and 
not  a  hne  has  been  allowed  on  its  pages  which  could 
possibly  offend  the  most  scrupulous  delicacy. 

It  is  difficult  for  an  editor  to  say  a  good  word  in 
behalf  of  what  he  brings  into  the  literary  market,  with- 
out seemmg  to  overstep  the  bounds  of  true  modesty ; 
but  he  craves  indulgence,  for  simply  saying  here,  that 
whoever  chooses  to  examine  the  contents  of  "  Friend- 
ship's Gift,"  will  find  no  lack  of  entertamment  in  the 
perusal.  W.  P. 


jvi64479 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Lines  to  Florence. 

Winthrop  M.  Praed, 

-      13 

Will  the  Wizard. 

John  Neal, 

-      16 

The  Bachelor's  Dream. 

Anonymous,  - 

-      37 

Last   Hours    of  a    Single 

Gentleman. 

Anonymous,  - 

-      39 

The  Evening  Star. 

Barry  Cornwall, 

-      44 

Jacqueline. 

H.  W.  Longfellow, 

-      45 

Our  Yankee  Ships. 

James  T.  Fields,     - 

-      53 

The  Melancholy  Man. 

Theodore  S.  Fay,    - 

-      55 

The  Old  World. 

George  Lunt, 

-      62 

The  Fallen  Heroes  of  Mon- 

terey. 

Anonymous,  - 

-      65 

The  Divinity  Student. 

Anonymous,  - 

-      67 

Birds  of  Passage. 

Anonymous,  - 

-      76 

The  Voyage  of  Life. 

G.  P.  R.  James,      - 

-      78 

A  Farewell. 

Ismael  Fitzadam,    - 

-      80 

The  Country  Story. 

John  Carver,  - 

-      82 

The  Hebrew  Prayer. 

T.  K.  Hervey, 

-      96 

The  Anniversary. 

Alaric  A.  Watts,     - 

-      99 

The    Heroine    Martyr    of 

Monterey. 

Rev.  J.  G.  Lyons,   - 

-    101 

The  Disclaimer. 

Henry  T.  Tuckerman, 

-    103 

Secret  Courtship. 

Beranger, 

-    115 

The  Blue  Eyed  Lassie. 

John  Imlah,    - 

-    118 

VI. 

CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Song. 

Anonymous,  - 

-       120 

The  Talking  Lady. 

Miss  Mitford, 

-     121 

Shakspeare. 

Laman  Blanchard,  - 

-     130 

Better  Days. 

Anonymous,   - 

-     134 

Leaving  Home. 

Etonian, 

-     140 

Attending  Auctions. 

M.  M.  Noah,  - 

-    141 

The  Eye. 

Anonymous,  - 

-    147 

Paul  Anderson's  Luck. 

Anonymous,  - 

-    148 

Prayers  at  Sea. 

Mrs.  Sigourney, 

-     153 

Town  and  Country. 

Theodore  S.  Fay,    - 

-    154 

Stanzas  to  a  Lady. 

T.  K.  Hervey,    "     - 

-    160 

The  China  Jug. 

Miss  Mitford,  - 

-    163 

Pagan  ini. 

Anonymous,  - 

-    176 

The  Old  Corporal. 

Beranger, 

-     179 

The  Phantom  Portrait. 

S.  T.  Coleridge,      - 

-    182 

Broken  Tics. 

J.  Montgomerey,     - 

-     185 

The  Warrior's  Grave. 

Blrs.  He  mans, 

-     187 

A  Paint  Brush  Sketch. 

Anonymous,  - 

-     190 

Things  to  Come. 

George  Croley, 

-     196 

The  Water  Fall. 

Anonymous,   - 

-    199 

Birth  Place  of  Shakspeai'e.     Anonymous,  - 

-    201 

Time's  Swiftness. 

R.  W.  Spencer,       - 

-    209 

Freedom. 

Alfred  Tennyson,  - 

-    210 

Tale  of  Expiation. 

Prof.  Wilson, 

-    214 

Fair  Ines. 

Thomas  Hood, 

-    261 

Love. 

Anonymous,  - 

-    264 

Recollections. 

Mrs.  Norton,  - 

-    267 

The  Last  Cab-Driver. 

Charles  Dickens,     - 

-    269 

Mutual  Love. 

Coleridge, 

-    285 

The  Holy  Child. 

Prof  Wilson, 

-    289 

The  Cloud. 

P.  B.  Shelley, 

-    307 

The  Fugitives, 

P.  B.  Shelley, 

-    310 

LIST  OF  ENGRxiVLNGS. 


Florence, Frontispiece. 

Vignette, •        .        .  Title. 

Soldier's  Funeral, 65 

Indian's  Farewell, 80 

The  Heroine  Martyr, 101 

The  Peaceful  Glen,    ------  120 

Prayers  at  Sea, 153 

The  Warrior, 187 

The  Waterfall,  199 

Ines,  -  -  -        -  261 


FRIENDSHIP'S    GIFT 


LINES  TO  FLORENCE. 

^    WINTHROP     M.     PRAED. 

Long  years  have  passed  with  silent  pace, 

Florence  !  since  you  and  I  have  met ; 
Yet  —  when  that  meeting  I  retrace, 

My  cheek  is  pale,  my  eye  is  wet ; 
For  I  was  doomed  from  thence  to  rove 

O'er  distant  tracts  of  earth  and  sea. 
Unaided,  Florence  ! save  by  love ; 

And  unremembered  —  save  by  thee  ! 
We  met!  and  hope  beguiled  our  fears  — 

Hope,  ever  bright,  and  ever  vain  ; 
We  parted  thence  in  silent  tears. 

Never  to  meet —  in  life  —  again. 
The  myrtle  that  I  gaze  upon. 

Sad  token  by  thy  love  devised. 
Is  all  the  record  left  of  one 

So  long  bewailed  —  so  dearly  prized. 
You  gave  it  in  an  hour  of  grief. 

When  gifts  of  love  are  doubly  dear ; 
You  gave  it  —  and  one  tender  leaf 

Glistened  the  while  with  Beauty's  tear. 
1 


14  friendship's  gift. 

A  tear-  cli '  'ovelier  far  to  me, 

J?hed  for  me  i'l  my  saddest  hour, 
Than  b-ight  and  fialtering  smiles  could  be, 

Ir.  couitly  l«ali,  or' summer  bower. 
You  strove  my  anguisli  to  beguile 

With  distant  hopes  of  future  weal ; 
You  strove !  —  alas  !  you  could  not  smile, 

Nor  speak  the  hope  you  did  not  feel. 
I  bore  the  gift  Affection  gave. 

O'er  desert  sand  and  thorny  brake, 
O'er  rugged  rock  and  stormy  wave, 

I  loved  it  for  the  giver's  sake ; 
And  often  in  my  happiest  day. 

In  scenes  of  bliss  and  hours  of  pride, 
When  all  around  was  glad  and  gay, 

I  looked  upon  the  gift  —  and  sighed : 
And  when  on  ocean,  or  on  clift. 

Forth  strode  the  Spirit  of  the  Storm, 
I  gazed  upon  thy  fading  gift, 

I  thought  upon  thy  fading  form ; 
Forgot  the  lightning's  vivid  dart. 

Forgot  the  rage  of  sky  and  sea, 
Forgot  the  doom  that  bade  us  part  — 

And  only  lived  to  love  and  thee. 
Florence  !  thy  myrtle  blooms !  but  thou, 

Beneath  thy  cold  and  lowly  stone, 
Forgetful  of  our  mutual  vow. 

And  of  a  heart  —  still  all  thine  own  — 
Art  laid  in  that  unconscious  sleep. 

Which  he  that  wails  thee  soon  must  know, 
Whore  none  may  smile,  and  none  may  weep, 

None  dream  of  bliss  —  or  wake  to  wo. 
If  e'er,  as  Fancy  oft  will  feign. 

To  that  dear  spot  which  gave  thee  birth 
Thy  fleeting  shade  returns  again, 

To  look  on  him  thou  lov'dst  on  earth. 


LINES    TO    FLORENCE.  15 

It  may  a  moment's  joy  impart, 

To  know  that  this,  thy  favorite  tree, 
Is  to  my  desolated  heart 

Ahnost  as  dear  as  thou  could'st  be. 
My  Florence  !  soon  —  the  thought  is  sweet  i 

The  turf  that  wraps  thee  I  shall  press ; 
Again,  my  Florence  !  we  shall  meet. 

In  bliss —  or  in  forgetfulness. 
With  thee,  in  Death's  oblivion  laid, 

I  will  not  have  the  cypress  gloom 
To  throw  its  sickly,  sullen  shade. 

Over  the  stillness  of  my  tomb  : 
And  there  the  'scutcheon  shall  not  shine, 

And  there  the  banner  shall  not  wave  ; 
The  treasures  of  the  glittering  mine 

Would  ill  become  a  lover's  grave : 
But  when  from  this  abode  of  strife 

My  liberated  shade  shall  roam. 
Thy  myrtle,  that  has  cheered  my  life, 

Shall  decorate  my  narrow  home  : 
And  it  shall  bloom  in  beauty  there, 

Like  Florence  in  her  early  day  ; 
Or,  nipped  by  cold  December's  air, 

Wither  —  like  Hope  and  thee  —  away. 


WILL    THE    WIZARD 


BY   JOHN    NEAL. 

Somewhere  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago, 
a  boy,  with  plentiful  brown  hair,  a  saucy  though  girl- 
ish mouth,  very  red  lips,  and  large  clear  hazel  eyes, 
appeared  lounging  over  a  sort  of  handbarrow,  at  the 
door  of  a  small  shop  in  a  little  one-story  village  of 
England.  He  wore  no  hat  —  he  was  barefooted  — 
and  his  bosom  was  all  open.  It  was  market-day,  and 
the  principal  street  was  a  crowded  thoroughfare.  The 
shop  stood  end  to  the  street,  with  a  high  pointed  roof, 
one  door,  a  large  window  below  and  a  smaU  one  above. 
Though  built  of  brick  and  mortar,  there  was  a  frame- 
work outside  —  a  sort  of  skeleton  —  as  though  some- 
))ody  had  put  it  together  in  a  hurry,  as  people  do 
shoes,  and  forgot  to  turn  it  —  or  left  the  staging  up. 
Fashions  have  altered  since.  People  put  the  best  leg 
foremost  now  —  their  best  furniture  outside.  Our 
very  women  miderstand  this  ;  and  as  for  our  men  — 
what  arc  they,  but  women  turned  inside  out  ? 

At  the  shop-window,  lialfleanhig  out,  half  lymg,  ap- 
peared a  middle-aged  man,  with  a  red  worsted  night- 


WILL    THE    WIZARD.  17 

cap,  set  awry  over  one  ear,  his  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up 
above  the  elbows,  and  a  leather  apron,  pulled  jauntily 
and  coquettishly  aside,  so  as  to  reveal  a  new  suit  of 
underclothes  —  and  a  belt  of  protuberant  linen,  push- 
ing out  over  the  waistband,  Uke  a  wreath  of  snow. 
He  Avas  evidently  a  man  of  consideration  thereabouts 
—  a  good-natured,  portly  personage  —  a  man  of  sub- 
stance, and  acquainted  Avith  everybody.  About  the 
door,  lay  piles  of  sheepskins,  and  great  rods  of  cloth, 
"  in  the  gray  "  —  and  in  the  A\indow,  Avere  heaps  of 
AA'Ool,  the  Avhitest  and  cleanest  you  ever  saw. 

The  busy  multitude  SAvept  by,  hour  after  hour  — 
and  the  boy  folloAved  them  Avith  his  eyes,  but  he  saAV 
them  not :  gibe  after  gibe  Avas  interchanged  Avith  his 
father  —  salutation  after  salutation  —  but  he  heard 
them  not.  He  Avas  hke  one  asleep,  under  the  orange 
trees,  that  grew  by  the  wayside  —  through  which, 
the  rest  of  the  crowd  were  pouring,  as  with  the  tread 
of  trampling  nations.  It  Avas  a  great  sohtude  about 
him  —  a  solitude,  like  that  of  the  momitain-top  or  the 
sea-shore.  He  A\^as  afar  off,  Avorshipping  underneath 
a  strange  sky,  in  the  heart  of  a  rocky  Avilderness  — 

Where,  since  there  walked  the  Everlasting  God, 
No  living  foot  hath  been. 

His  fellow-creatures  Avcre  like  shadoAvs  to  him  ;  their 
voices,  a  doubtful  echo  —  a  distant  and  perpetual 
murmur,  like  the  unmterrupted  song  of  the  sea-shell. 
To  him,  they  were  creatures  of  another  world  — 
1* 


18  FRIENDSHIP  S    GIFT. 

creatures  of  earth.  Nevertheless,  he  loved  them  — 
and  pitied  them  ;  for  his  yomig  heart  was  already 
ovei-flowing  with  human  sympathies  —  aching  with 
generous  and  fiery  hope.  There  was  a  settled  expres- 
sion of  sweet  seriousness  about  his  mouth  —  but, 
occasionally  a  smile  would  appear,  playing  for  a  mo- 
ment there,  like  sunshme  — it  Avould  pass  away,  too, 
like  sunshine  —  and  there  would  be  left  nothmg  but 
the  impertm-bable  serenity — the  more  than  mortal 
gravity  of  a  superior  nature.  Ahke  fitted  for  com- 
panionship with  the  lowliest  and  the  loftiest,  he  had 
no  language  for  either.  The  Future  was  in  travail  — 
and  there  were  types  and  shadows  marshalling  them- 
selves before  him,  and  sceptres  and  cro^ms  tumblmg, 
and  rolling,  and  gUttering  about  his  path.  His 
youthful  spirit  was  undergomg  a  transfiguration.  A 
something  strange  —  a^^ful  —  miintelligible  to  him- 
self, was  beginning  to  stir  mthm  the  great  deep  of  his 
heart.  The  foundations  thereof  were  agitated  — 
flashes  of  fire  passed  before  him  —  and  thunders 
uttered  their  voices. 

The  sun  rolled  up  higher  and  higher,  and  the  sun- 
shine streamed  liotter  and  hotter  upon  the  boy's  uncov- 
ered head,  and  played  with  his  glittermg  hair,  mitil  it 
radiated  and  sparkled  about  his  transparent  temples 
and  haughty  forehead,  as  with  the  splendors  of  poetry. 
And  his  wide-open  eyes  were  illuminated  to  then-  very 
depths,  as  with  inward  fire  —  and  appeared  listenmg, 
as  to  unearthly  music  ;  and  his  voluptuous  mouth  was 
touched  with  unspeakable  fervor. 


WILL    THE    WIZARD.  19 

And  the  multitude  swept  by  him  forever  and  ever  ; 
and  all  the  wonders  of  earth  went  over  his  young 
heart,  hke  the  shadows  of  the  empyrean  over  the 
fathomless  tranquilhty  of  a  vast  untroubled  sea.  And 
there  were  strange  whisperings  about  him,  and  yet 
stranger  music  —  audible  influences  —  the  sweet  chirj>- 
mg  of  birds  among  apple-blossoms  —  the  steady  roar 
of  the  multitudinous  ocean  —  the  perpetual  chiming 
of  the  stars  —  the  rattling  of  the  spring-brooks  over 
pebbles  and  among  the  roots  of  old  trees,  and  a  ring- 
ing, hke  the  voices  of  children  at  play  by  the  sea- 
shore. 

What,  Will !  —  mil,  I  say !  why,  what 's  the  boy 
dreamm'  about,  now  ?  Wake  up.  Will !  wake  up  I 
Thou  'It  never  be  a  man,  boy,  an'  thou  spendest  thy 
days  half  asleep  i'  the  sunshuie,  so  ! 

Father !  —  dear  father  —  an'  it  please  ye,  I  've  no 
desh-e  to  be  a  man-boy. 

Ah,  Willy,  Willy  !  —  an'  thee  do  n't  alter  afore 
thy  beard  blossoms,  thou  'It  not  hve  out  half  thy  days. 

An'  I  live  out  all  my  nights,  father,  I  do  n't  care 
for  the  days. 

Hoity  toity  —  this  comes  o'  droppin'  asleep,  Hke 
the  flowers  in  the  sunshine  —  playing  with  the  tassel 
of  his  night-cap,  as  he  spoke  —  it  was  hke  a  full-blown 
thistle-top. 

An'  it  please  ye,  father,  flowers  do  n't  drop  asleep 
in  the  smishme  —  at  the  worst,  they  but  dream  a 
little,  as  I  do :  but  I  was  n't  asleep,  father. 


20  FRIENDSHIP  S    GIFT. 

]^o^  no  —  I  warrant  me  !  no  more  than  thou  wast 
t'  other  day,  when  the  Bible  dropped  out  o'  thy  hands 
upon  the  church  floor. 

An'  waked  the  parson,  father. 

Oh,  my  poor  boy !  sleep  or  no  sleep,  asleep  or 
awake,  thou  'rt  the  strangest  he  in  all  Warrickshire 
—  added  the  father,  readjusting  his  night-cap  with  a 
petulant  twitch  —  and  if  thou  do  n't  cure  thyself  o' 
these  idle  pranks,  I  '11  —  I  '11  —  zounds  I  if  I  do  n't  — 

What,  father  ? 

Bind  thee  'prentice  to  an  attorney. 

Why,  dad  !  you  would  n't,  though. 

Yes,  but  I  would,  though  -^  or  to  a  chimney-swee]). 

Oh,  as  to  that,  father,  I  'ye  not  a  word  to  say. 

Thou  graceless  yagabond  !  —  that  would  suit  thee, 
would  n't  it  ?     I  yerily  believe  it  would. 

The  boy  laughed,  and  began  to  whistle. 

Here,  the  attention  of  the  father  was  called  oft'; 
but  he  returned  to  the  window,  after  a  fcAV  minutes, 
and  renewed  the  conyersation  —  evidently  pleased 
with  the  boy's  pertncss. 

Not  asleep,  hey  ? 

No,  father,  not  asleep. 

Dreaming,  though  ? 

Ay  !  that  I  was  !  And  angels  were  about  me  like 
bu-ds,  father  ;  waters,  like  suiging  creatures. 

Fiddle-de-dee ! 

Yes,  father  !  And  the  summer-winds  blew,  and 
the  sunshmc  flashed  through  the  wet  green  leaves, 


WILL    THE    WIZARD.  21 

till  tlicy  shivered  and  sparkled  like  live  butterflies  : 
and  I  thought,  father  —  Oh,  mj  dear  father,  you 
must  let  me  look  at  the  great  sea  before  I  die  ! 

Is  the  boj  mad  ? 

No,  father  !  But  there  was  a  huge  wide  feeling 
somehow,  all  about  me — it  came  up,  with  one  vast, 
long,  steady  heave,  like  the  Ocean  we  read  of — not 
Hke  the  undulations  of  a  newly-foimd  spring  in  the 
"wilderness,  or  a  foimtain  bubbling  up  among  straw- 
berry-blossoms. 

The  old  gentleman  stared  with  astonishment  —  the 
people  stared  —  and  before  he  knew  it,  he  was  walk- 
ing fore  and  aft  the  shop,  and  whistling  too,  with  all 
his  might  and  main. 

Yes,  father  !  And  I  saw  the  Wonders  of  the  great 
deep,  holding  council  together  :  Leviathans  at  play  — 
Robui  Goodfellow,  astride  of  a  swift  dolphin,  with  gold 
and  blue  burnished  scales  — ^  mighty  ships,  holding  on 
their  way,  with  the  instmct  of  birds,  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth — ^  stars,  dropping  fire — and  the  great  Sea 
flashmg  to  the  wmd. 

The  father  stopped  —  gazed  at  the  strange  boy 
mth  brimming  eyes,  for  a  moment,  and  then  walking 
forth,  he  laid  his  two  hands  reverentially  upon  his 
upturned  forehead,  saying  —  The  Lord  be  with  thee  I 
and  prosper  thee,  thou  wonderful  creature  !  Others 
may  believe  thee  underwitted,  or  beside  thyself,  my 
poor  boy ;  but,  in  the  eyes  of  one  who  knoAvs  thee 
better,  much  better,  thou  art  the  type  of  sometliing 


22  friendship's  gift. 

unheard  of  in  the  history  of  niankmd.  Awake,  there- 
fore !  —  stand  up !  and  thy  foolish  old  father  will 
stand  up  with  tliee  ! 

Here  the  people  began  to  whisper  together  —  and 
the  boy,  understanding  by  their  eyes  what  another 
might  have  understood  only  by  their  language,  drew 
his  father  into  the  shop  ;  while  the  multitude  slowly 
went  their  way  —  the  foremost,  tapping  his  forehead 
with  his  finger  —  the  next,  thrusting  his  tong-ue  into 
his  cheek,  as  he  turned  the  corner  —  and  all  the  rest 
wagging  their  heads. 

And  now,  Willy,  my  boy  —  said  his  father,  doffing 
his  red  night-cap,  and  ^\iping  his  bald  pate,  with  a 
portentous  flourish  —  I  do  n't  care  that  for  the  kna\'es  ! 
(snapping  his  fingers)  and  from  tliis  day  forth,  mstead 
of  being  tied  to  the  shop,  as  they  would  have  thee, 
thou  shalt  have  books  to  read,  and  clothes  to  wear  : 
and  it  shall  go  hard  but  thy  old  father  '11  make  a  gen- 
tleman of  thee,  in  spite  of  their  talk,  (fetching  the 
boy  a  slap  on  the  back  ;)  what  d  'ye  think  o'  that, 
YOU  dog,  you  ? 

Thank  ye,  father  ;  but  I  've  no  desire  to  be  a  gen- 
tleman. 

No  desire  to  be  a  gentleman  ! 

No,  father,  an'  it  please  ye. 

And  why  not,  Willy  ? 

Because,  father  — 

Because^  father  —  because  what,  my  boy  ?  — 
what 's  the  matter  with  thee  ?  —  why  dost  turn  away 
thy  face  ?     Out  with  it,  my  boy  —  because  what  ? 


WILL    THE    WIZARD.  23 

Because  I  've  observed  that  no  woman  ever  falls  in 
love  with  a  gentleman^  father. 

Odds,  my  life  !  —  how  shouldst  thou  know  anything 
about  love  ? 

I  say  —  father  — 

Well,  what  now  ?  —  leave  playin'  "v\qth  thy  fingers, 
and  answer  me.  God 's  life  !  as  her  majesty  saith  — 
but  I  shall  be  out  of  all  patience  with  thee  I  if  thou 
speak  not  soon. 

Father !  -— 

Well  — 

Did  ye  ever  happen  to  see  old  Hathaway's  daugh- 
ter ? 

Wliich  daughter  ?  —  Mary  ? 

Mary  indeed  !  —  why,  Mary  is  a  child. 

A  child,  hey  ?  —  older  than  thou,  by  almost  a  year, 
my  boy. 

Yes,  father  ;  but  not  old  enough —  an'  it  please  ye 
—  for  me. 

What  —  hey! — let  me  look  into  your  eyes,  you 
young  rogue,  you!  Thou'rt  not  thinkuig  of  Anne 
Hathaway,  I  hope  —  hey  ? 

And  why  not,  father  ?  Is  n't  she  the  bravest  g*irl  in 
Warrickshire  ?  —  did  n't  you  tell  mother  so  yourself, 
not  a  month  ago  ? 

To  be  sm*e  I  did  ;  and  as  beautiful  as  brave.  But 
how,  in  the  name  of  all  the  saints,  camestthouto  know 
anything  about  Anne  Hathaway  ?  —  why,  she  's  old 
enough  to  be  thy  mother,  thou  scapegrace. 


24  friendship's  gift. 

No,  father,  not  quite  —  only  seven  years  and  four 
months  older,  come  next  Michaelmas. 

But  how  camest  thou  acquainted  mth  her,  I  say  ? 
Answer  me  that,  Willy. 

I  'm  not  acquainted  with  her,  sii'. 

Not  acquainted  with  her  ? 

No  sir  ;  I  never  saw  her  but  once. 

And  when  was  that,  pray  ?  —  thou  mouthful  of  ^i 
jnnserbread. 

"When  you  took  me  to  Kennilworth,  to  see  the 
show. 

What !  four  years  ago,  when  thou  wast  but  thir- 
teen years  of  age  ? 

Yes,  father. 

And  there  thou  saw'st  Anne  Hathaway  ? 

Yes,  father. 

And  what  then  ?  — 

Nothing,  father. 

Boy  —  boy  —  I  ivill  be  answered  !  There 's  a 
mystery  here,  and  it  must  be  cleared  up.  It  must, 
and  it  shall. 

The  boy's  lip  trembled  —  a  tear  stood  in  his  eye  — 
and  he  breathed  hard  for  a  moment ;  and  then  plant- 
ing his  foot,  and  upheaving  his  forehead  to  the  sky, 
and  speaking  with  a  voice  he  had  never  employed 
before,  he  continued. 

The  mystery  shall  be  cleared  up,  father.  Y^ou  shall 
be  satisfied.  I  saw  Anne  Hathaway  when  the  Queen 
spoke  to  her,  and  all  eyes  were  upon  her :  I  saw  her 


WILL    THE    WIZARD.  25 


when  she  brought  the  flowers  to  lay  at  her  majesty's 
feet :  and  I  saw  her,  when  the  great  lord  of  Leicester 
would  have  snatched  a  kiss  from  her  —  and  she  flung 
him  off,  and  bounded  away  like  a  startled  fawn :  —  I 
saw  her  steal  back  to  her  father's  cottage ;  and 
though  she  was  told  that  the  Queen  herself  had 
inquired  for  her,  she  would  n't  return  to  Kennilworth 
again  till  the  pageant  was  all  over. 

And  that 's  true,  my  boy  —  I've  had  it  all  from 
her  father  himself,  who  told  her  the  Queen  had 
mquired  for  her,  as  the  rosebud  of  Warrickshire. 
But,  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  thy  not  bemg  a 
gentleman  ? 

I  do  n't  know,  father ;  but  I  do  n't  like  these  gen- 
tlemen, that  wear  white  gloves,  and  go  fingering  their 
way  through  the  wilderness,  afraid  to  wet  their  feet, 
afraid  to  laugh,  and  afraid  to  pray.  I  know  she  's  a 
woman,  father —  a  grown  woman  ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
I  can't  help  thinking  my  chance  would  be  better  than 
that  of  any  o'  these  gaudy  popinjays  —  these  gentle- 
men^ forsooth  —  if  I  had  but  the  courage  to  speak  to 
her. 

My  poor  silly  boy ! 

Call  me  anything  but  a  hoy^  father  ;  I  can't  bear 
that.  I  have  been  a  man  ever  since  I  first  saw  Anne 
Hathaway  ;  she  has  never  been  out  of  my  head  since 
—  I  dream  of  her  —  I  go  out  and  lie  do^vn  under- 
neath the  old  trees  of  the  park,  yonder,  and  look  at 
the  deer  and  the  bright  birds,  till  I  drop  asleep,  and 
2 


26  friendship's  gift. 

then  she  always  appears  to  me  — just  as  I  saw  her  at 
Keiniilworth,  Llushing  and  courtes^mig  and  stammer- 
ing, with  all  eyes  wondering  at  her  beauty  —  and 
then  rmming  off,  with  lord  Leicester  looking  after  her. 
Oh,  but  she  's  a  rare  girl !  and  with  your  leave,  my 
dear  father  —  now  do  n't  be  angry,  will  ye  ? 

Can't  promise  thee,  my  boy  ;  thou  'It  make  a  fool 
o' thy  father,  yet  —  mad  as  a  March  hare.  Well, 
with  my  leave  —  why  do  n't  ye  speak  ? 

"With  your  leave,  (flinging  both  anus  about  his 
father's  neck,  and  whispering  in  his  ear)  — 

What !  (starting  up,  and  laughmg  as  if  he  would 
spht  himself.)  What !  Thou  wilt  marry  Anne  Hatha- 
way —  God's  life  !  as  her  majesty  saith  —  thou  'rt  a 
precious  fellow  of  thy  inches  !  By  my  faith  !  I  should 
like  to  hear  thee  pop  the  question.  And  here  he 
burst  forth  into  another  obstreperous  peal  of  laughter. 

The  boy  looked  astonished  —  mortified  —  grieved 
to  the  very  heart :  his  color  came  and  went  —  and 
there  was  a  bright  small  dew  upon  his  upper  lip, 
which  instantly  disappeared,  as  if  breathed  upon  by  a 
blast  from  the  desert. 

Should  you,  father  ?  —  said  he  at  last,  in  reply  — 
should  you  indeed  ? 

Of  a  truth,  should  I. 

Then  go  with  me  to  her  father's  ;  for,  so  help  me 
God  I  I  '11  put  the  question  to  her  before  I  sleep ! 
Boy  or  no  boy,  father  —  I  '11  know  from  her  own  lips, 
whether  it  is  a  lying  spirit,  or  the  awful  instinct  of 


WILL    THE    WIZARD.  27 

trutli,  which  has  kept  me  awake  for  long  years, 
dreaming  of  that  girl  as  my  future  companion  —  yea, 
father,  as  my  future  ^vife.  Night  and  day  have  I 
dreamed  of  her  —  year  after  year  have  I  prayed  for 
her  —  all  that  appears  wonderful  in  my  character  or 
my  language,  or  wild  in  my  behavior — all  that  I 
know  or  wish  to  know  —  all  my  hopes  and  all  my 
fears  are  connected  with  her.  A^Ti}^  Sir!  It  was 
but  yesterday  that  I  fell  asleep,  thinking  of  her, 
under  the  great  oak  by  the  river,  there  —  and  I 
dreamed  a  dream,  father  —  a  dream  that,  awake  or 
asleep,  has  haunted  me  for  years. 

The  father  stood  awe-struck  and  breathless  before 
him,  waiting  the  issue.  There  was  a  sound  of  trum- 
pets m  the  air,  and  he  felt  afraid  of  his  own  child. 

Ay,  father  —  a  dream  ;  a  dream  of  power ;  a  pro- 
digious dream  !  I  tremble  now  to  give  it  language. 
But  I  must.  I  saw  palaces  and  thrones  —  and 
mighty  men  of  war  —  and  beautiful  women  :  whole 
nations  of  both  —  mustering  at  my  voice,  and  crowd- 
ing to  hear  me,  as  I  stood  alone  and  apart  from  all  the 
rest  of  mankind,  playing  with  a  strange  unearthly 
instrument  —  in  shape,  hke  a  human  heart — which  a 
spirit  of  gi^ace  left  A\ith  me,  one  still,  starry  night, 
when  I  saw  the  skies  rolling  away  forever,  ■v^dth 
no  hand  to  stay  them :  the  Universe  asleep,  and 
God  watching  over  it.  I  stood  upon  the  mountain- 
top.  The  foundations  of  the  Earth  were  opei«d 
to  me  ;  and  I  saw  gold  there,  and  gems,  like  subter- 
ranean sunshine.     Yea,  father  !  and  I  saw  the  sepul- 


28  FRIENDSHIP  S    GIFT. 

chres  of  the  giants  —  the  bones  of  many  a  forgotten 
Empire  —  the  skeleton  of  lost  worlds  —  the  store- 
houses of  the  great  Deep  —  and  the  abiding-place  of 
perpetual  fire  :  and  I  lifted  up  my  voice,  and  told  the 
creatures  of  Earth  what  I  saw,  and  they  believed 
me  not.  And  the  winds  blew,  and  the  darkness  drove 
by,  like  a  midnight  fog  —  and  that  generation  was  no 
more.  Anon,  another  appeared  —  another,  and  yet 
another  —  and  at  last,  there  were  those  that  under- 
stood me.  And  Avhen  I  talked  of  soils,  that,  once 
broken  up  —  whether  by  earthquake  or  fire  —  by 
storm  or  deluge  —  teem  with  the  seed  of  empire  — 
with  strange  flowers,  and  stranger  fruit,  —  they  be- 
lieved me,  though  they  understood  me  not. 

Boy  —  boy  !  —  what 's  the  matter  with  thee  !  — 
what 's  thee  stretching  forth  thy  arms  for,  so  wildly  ? 
—  what 's  thee  reaching  after  —  hey  !  — 

Was  I,  father  I  —  0,  I  had  forgotten  myself!  I 
was  wandering  by  the  sea-shore,  and  plucking  at  the 
bright-haired,  unapproachable  creatures  that  drifted 
by  me.  I  was  wondering  to  see  shadows  upon  the 
deepest  and  blackest  midnight  sky  —  a  firmament  of 
polished  ebony  ;  I  was  Hstening  to  Seas  that  thunder 
in  their  sleep  from  century  to  century. 

Of  a  truth,  my  boy,  it  makes  my  heart  ache  to 
hear  thee  —  no  good  will  come  of  this,  I  am  sure  ; 
and  if  anything  should  happen,  there  are  those  Avho 
wiy  consider  it  a  judgment  upon  thy  poor  old  father, 
for  trying  to  make  a  gentleman  of  tlice. 


WILL    THE    WIZARD.  29 

And  rightly  enough  too.  Let  God  have  his  own 
way  with  the  work  of  his  own  hands,  father.  If  I  am 
not  to  be  a  gentleman,  I  shall  be  something  better,  I 
hope  ;  and  if  I  am^  why,  God's  will  be  done  1  — 
that 's  all  I  have  to  say. 

But,  poetry  is  a  beggarly  trade,  my  boy  ;  an'  thee 
should  n't  betake  thyself  to  that :  and  so  is  the  making 
of  speeches. 

I  know  it,  father  —  and  therefore  I  '11  none  of  it ! 
I  am  not  without  other  and  better  resources.  Boy 
though  I  am,  I  have  learned  something  of  human 
nature:  I  have  learned  to  think  for  myself — and  I 
have  learned  to  disentangle  the  roots  of  error  from  the 
foundations  of  our  strength  —  to  look  upon  the  mighty 
of  earth,  even  the  mightiest,  as  the  playthings  of  the 
multitude. 

Have  a  care,  boy !  These  are  perilous  thoughts  : 
they  should  be  smothered,  like  monsters  —  stifled  in 
the  birth. 

Smothered  I  —  stifled  I  I  would  as  soon  smother  a 
child  of  my  o^\TL  begetting,  as  a  thought  worth  pre- 
serving. Why  should  we  stifle  the  princely  ofispring 
of  our  intellectual  spirits  ?  No,  father  ;  I  know  what 
mankind  are  —  and  I  know  that  we  must  be  made  of 
sterner  stuff  than  others  to  communicate  rather  than 
to  receive  impressions.  I  have  thought  much  of  what 
we  call  the  great  of  our  day  ;  and  I  have  quite 
another  idea  of  greatness,  let  me  tell  you,  father. 
The  men  I  call  great,  are  men  of  rock.  Dominion 
2* 


30  FRIENDSHIP  S    GIFT. 

have  they ;  not  over  the  fish  of  the  sea,  the  fowls  of 
the  air,  or  the  beasts  of  the  field ;  but  over  the  Men 
of  all  the  earth  —  of  all  ages  and  of  all  countries. 

There  he  goes,  again  1  there  he  goes  !  with  all  the 
heedlessness  of  a  grasshopper  —  hit  or  miss  ! 

Trees,  father,  cast  ofi"  their  encumbering  foliage, 
when  they  go  to  w^ar  with  the  winds  ;  naked,  they  are 
in^Tllnerable  ^ — ■  so  with  me.  After  a  few  years,  I 
shall  betake  myself  to  the  war  ;  and  when  I  do,  away 
with  all  this  pageantry  and  pomp !  away  with  all 
strange  hopes  —  and  all  strange  dreaming  !  It  was 
but  to-day,  that  I  saw,  with  my  eyes  open,  the  whole 
embodied  Future  sailing  before  me,  century  after  cen- 
tury, with  all  their  wings  outspread.  I  saw  the 
Invisible  at  work  —  the  mountains  growing  populous 
with  giant  sculpture  —  the  Avarp  and  woof  of  the  sky, 
and  all  the  looms  thereof,  in  full  play  ;  and  the  chips 
flew,  and  the  threads  ran  like  fire,  hither  and  thither, 
among  the  agitated  clouds,  and  I  saw  great  blocks  of 
marble  changing  their  shape,  wiien  there  was  nobody 
near  ;  and  harps,  playing  in  the  sky  to  invisible 
fingers  —  what !  father  —  asleep  ?  then  here  goes  ! 

And  saying  this,  he  darted  through  the  door,  and 
was  off,  at  full  speed,  for  the  cottage  of  Anne  Hatha- 
way. How  he  sped  in  his  prayer,  let  the  chronicles 
of  that  day  —  the  day  of  the  haughty  Elizabeth  — 
declare.  At  the  age  of  seventeen,  the  boy  married 
Anne  Hathaway,  who  was  then  about  twenty-five. 

And  after  that — wild  and  riotous,  and  urged  on- 


WILL    THE    WIZARD.  31 

ward  bj  the  unappeasable  spirit  of  his  childhood,  he 
betook  himself  to  that  great  world  in  miniature  — 
London.  There  he  lived  ;  and  there  he  laid  the 
foundations  of  that  glory,  which  hath  smce  outblazed 
the  wildest  hope  of  his  youth. 

After  many  years,  men  built  temples  to  him,  and 
established  a  priesthood,  who  gradually  extended  the 
worship  of  that  boy  —  for  it  was  worship  —  over  the 
whole  of  the  enlightened  earth.  His  name  Avas  a  star 
— his  language  in  everybody's  mouth.  Milhons  were 
able  to  repeat  his  commonest  sayings  ;  and  millions 
went  in  pilgrimage  to  that  small  shop,  in  that  little  one- 
story  village  of  England,  there  to  look  at  what  his  eyes 
had  looked  upon,  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  before  ; 
there  to  breathe  the  air  he  breathed,  in  the  outbreak- 
ing of  his  fiery,  intrepid,  ungovernable  nature. 

And  of  the  multitude  that  went  m  pilgrimage  there, 
some  left  their  names  on  the  whitewashed  wall  of  the 
bed-chamber,  over  the  shop  ;  and  some,  a  word  or  two 
of  wretched  poetry.  And  of  the  multitude  that  came 
away,  all  had  pretty  much  the  same  story  to  tell  — 
and  did  tell  it ;  and  yet  the  public  Avere  never  weary 
—  or,  if  weary,  would  never  own  it  —  such  was  the 
magic  of  the  boy's  name.  Of  these,  nobody  inquired 
more  faithfully  or  diligently  than  the  author,  whose 
memorandum,  faithfully  transcribed  from  the  original 
page,  must  now  end  this  article. 

"  Stratfordrupon-Avon.  Eighteen  miles  from  Co- 
ventry.    Four  s.  fare  ;  one  s.  coach ;  two  s.  to  Mary 


32  friendship's  gift. 

Hornly  ;  one  s.  cliiircli ;  six  d.  boy  ;  one  s.  house  ; 
six  d.  hall.  House  he  was  born  in  plastered  outside, 
between  the  black  beams,  running  so  as  to  stripe  it 
equally.  jNIary  Hornly  is  a  relation  of  his,  by  mar- 
riage and  descent  —  keeps  ready-made  tragedies,  from 
eighteen  pence  to  two-and-six  pence  a  piece  ;  one  is  en- 
titled Waterloo  —  warranted  genuine  — '  made  by  her- 
self! '  —  shows  sundry  chairs,  and  a  long,  old  table, 
*  cut  to  pieces  hy  the  nobility  ;  '  —  called  my  attention 
'to  the  carved  postesses  of  the  bed,  —  mentioned  in 
the  will,  —  if  I'd  take  the  trouble  to  look  at  it.' 
One  is  reminded  of  the  knife,  to  be  seen  for  a  penny, 
with  which  a  terrible  murder  had  been  perpetrated  — 
whereupon,  a  neighbor  advertised  the  fork,  belonging 
to  the  hiife,  to  be  seen  next  door  for  only  a  half- 
penny. Here  was  a  wooden  picture,  also,  represent- 
ing David  with  the  cramp  in  his  right  arm,  blazing 
away  at  poor  Gohath,  with  an  old  motto  newly  fur- 
bished up  —  somewhat  after  this  fashion : 

Goliath  waxeth  wroth  — 

David  with  a  sling, 
(Something  I  can't  make  out) 

Doth  down  Goliath  bring ! 

though  not  half  so  good.  She  exhibited,  moreover, 
a  sword,  a  looking  glass,  a  pin-cushion  —  a  jubilee 
ditto  —  and  a  clumsy  wooden  candlestick,  once  gilt, 
and  in  some  way  connected  with  Garrick  and  the 
Festival.     A  very  ignorant,  vulgar,  pleasant  woman, 


WILL    THE    WIZARD.  33 

—  about  fiftj-five  —  say  sixty,  now.  She  was  turned 
out  of  the  true  house  —  on  which  the  rent  was  un- 
expectedly '  riz '  from  twenty  to  forty  pounds. 
Brought  away  with  her  everything  that  people  cared 
for,  and  left  the  remainder  to  be  whitewashed.  A 
book,  full  of  names,  lay  upon  the  table  :  I  found  in 
it  George  Rex,  Byron,  Scott,  the  Archduke  of 
Austria.  And  sooth  to  say.  King  George's  E.  was 
quite  tolerable  for  a  King,  though  by  no  means  equal 
to  that  I  had  been  led  to  hope  from  Blackwood. 
Left  my  name :  ' ,  United  States,  Janu- 
ary 29,  1824,'  and  would  have  added  in  prose  —  but 
could  'nt  —  Put  off  thy  shoes  !  the  ground  whereon 
thou  standest  is  holy  !  &c.  &c.  &c.  ;  and,  as  for 
poetry,  I  'd  foresworn  poetry  ;  and  what  is  more,  I 
had  never  undertaken  a  real  impromptu  in  my  life  — 
and  never  but  one  which  I  ventured  to  pass  for  one. 
I  left  the  house,  therefore,  2i\togetlcier  flabberr/asted  — 
wondering  to  find  myself  unable  to  say  boh  !  to 
a  goose,  where  so  many  others  had  been  able  to 
say  nothing  else.  —  Washington  Irving  among  the 
rest.  Well,  I  proceeded  to  the  church  —  stood  over 
the  bones  of  the  dead  giant,  with  my  foot  upon  his 
neck  :  yea,  trampled  upon  the  ashes  of  his  mighty 
heart  and  paid  sixpence  for  the  privilege :  was 
beset  again  by  the  cockney-muse  —  and  longed  to  cry 
out  Wliat,  ho  I  to  my  o^vn  shadow,  as  I  saw  it  pro- 
jected along  the  walls,  hatted  and  cloaked,  by  the 
particular  desire  of  the  attendant ;  and  heard,  on  the 


34  friendship's  gift. 

paved  floor,  the  rattling  of  my  boots,  wMcli  were  pro- 
vided with  iron  heels,  and  the  rude,  noisy  echoes  that 
followed  every  step  I  took !  One  ought  to  be  shod 
with  iron,  or  hrass^  thought  I,  to  tread  amid  the 
ashes  of  such  a  furnace.  On  my  way  back  to  my 
lodgings,  I  felt  another  throe  —  and  another  —  and 
before  I  well  knew  where  I  was,  I  had  brought  forth 
the  following,  which  I  offer  as  a  suitable  inscription. 

Rash  man  !  —  Forbear ! 
Thou  wilt  not  surely  tread 
On  the  anointed  head 
Of  him  that  slumbereth  there  ! 

Would'st  meet  the  God  of  such  as  thou, 

With  that  untroubled  brow  ! 

With  covered  head  and  covered  feet ! 

Where  William  Shakspeare  used  to  meet 

His  God, 

Uncovered  and  unshod, 

In  prayer ! 

Thou  wilt  not  surely  venture  where 

But  sleeps  the  awful  Dead, 
With  that  irreverent  air, 
And  that  alarming  tread  ! 

What,  ho ! 
Beware  I 
The  very  dust,  below 
The  haui,'hty  Dead,  will  wake  — 
The  walls  about  thee  shake, 
If  that  uplifted  heel. 
Shod  as  it  is  with  steel, 
Should  full  on  Shakspeare's  head ! 


WILL    THE    WIZARD.  35 

Thence,  ha\Tiig  acliieved  mv  impromptu,  I  went  to 
the  house  where  '  he  hved  and  breathed  and  had  his 
bemg  ; '  and  began  forth^^-ith  to  scatter  the  golden 
cobweb,  (the  stuff  that  dreams  are  made  of),  wliich 
I  had  spun,  Hke  a  silk-worm,  out  of  my  own  vitals. 
There  was  the  very  room  —  that !  where  the  bard 
was  born.     I  was  perfectly  sure  of  it.     And  why  ?  — 
because,  the  moment  I  set  my  foot  there,  a  miracle 
happened.     Being  requested  to  write  my  name,  as  I 
had  been  requested  before,  both  at  the  church  and  at 
the  house  of  the  woman  ivhat  made  plays,  both  of 
whom  desired  to  be  remembered  to  all  my  friends 
coming  that  way !     (I  could  have  told  her  that  my 
friends  were  hkely  to  go  quite  another  way.)     I  seat- 
ed myself  and  began  to  write  ;    all  at  once  — just 
when  I   had  got  *as  far  as  '  ISorth  America,^  which 
sounds  fifty   times    grander,  m  such  a  place,  than 
United  States,  beside  being  altogether  more  intelli- 
gible to  the  gi-eat  body  of  British  statesmen,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  multitude  —  the  best  of  them  being 
not  much  better  informed  to  this  day,  respectmg  our 
geography,  than  they  were  when  the  '  Island  of  Vir- 
ginia '  was  first  mentioned  in  the  house  of  Lords  — 
or  the  '  State  of  New-England '  thought  proper  to  set 
herself  m  array  agauist  the  '  great  President,'  I  came 
to  a  full  stop  !     I  had  fiiiished  forever,  as  I  thought, 
and  was  about  to  adjourn  —  by  my  faith  it  is  true  — 
when  a  queer  sensation  —  a  sort  of  trickling   from 
my  heart  —  a  something,  that  'zvent  a  rippling  to 


36  friendship's  gift. 

the  finger  ends,'*  prevented  me.  I  tried  to  get  up  — 
I  couldn't  —  to  fling  down  the  pen  —  it  Avould  n't 
budge  —  so  Avrite  I  must,  and  write  I  did ;  and 
the  following  real,  honest,  do^iiright  impromptu  was 
the  result. 

The  ground  is  holy  here  —  the  very  air  ! 

Ye  breathe  what  Shakspeare  breathed.     Rash  men,  beware ! 

Oh,  yes  !  —  Will  Shakspeare  teas  born  here.  The 
question  was  settled  forever  —  and  ever.  I  could  n't 
help  sliding  into  '  extrumpery.'  0,  ye  walls  !  cov- 
ered with  pencilled  names,  on  whitewashed  plaster  ! 
Kings  !  Princes  I  and  Immortals  —  if  they  were 
ever  there  —  or,  if  only  such  as  understood  him  had 
written  there,  no  hghts  would  be  needed  to  show  the 
manger  of  Shakspeare.  The  walls  would  be  luminous 
with  their  handwritincr  —  the  sim-manuals  of  them 
that  write  with  imperishable  fire,  light  burning  not 
only  under  water,  but  under  earth,  and  throughout 
all  the  earth.  But  enough  —  our  story  is  about 
'  Wizard  Will; —not  '  WHl  Wizard:'  and  there- 
fore know  we  when  to  stop. 


THE  BACHELOR'S  DREAM. 


ANONYMOUS. 


The  music  ceased,  the  last  quadrille  was  o'er, 
And  one  by  one  the  waning  beauties  fled ; 

The  garlands  vanished  from  the  frescoed  floor, 
The  nodding  fiddler  hung  his  weary  head. 

And  I  —  a  melancholy  single  man  — 
Retired  to  mourn  my  solitary  fate  — 

i  slept  awhile ;  but  o'er  my  slumbers  ran 
The  sylph-like  image  of  my  blooming  Kate. 

I  dreamt  of  mutual  love,  and  Hymen's  joys. 
Of  happy  moments  and  connubial  blisses  r 

And  then  I  thought  of  little  girls  and  boys, 
The  mother's  glances,  and  the  infant's  kisses. 

I  saw  them  all,  in  sweet  perspective  sitting 
In  winter's  eve  around  a  blazing  fire. 

The  children  playing,  and  the  mother  knitting, 
Or  fondly  gazing  on  the  happy  Sire. 

The  scene  was  changed.    In  came  the  Baker's  bill 
I  stared  to  see  the  hideous  consummation 

Of  pies  and  puddings  that  it  took  to  fill 
The  bellies  of  the  rising  generation. 
3 


9  friendship's  gift. 

There  was  no  end  to  eating  :  —  legs  of  mutton 
Were  vanquislied  daily  by  this  little  host ; 

To  see  them,  you'd  have  thought  each  tiny  glutton 
Had  laid  a  wager  who  could  eat  the  most. 

The  massy  pudding  smoked  upon  the  platter, 
The  ponderous  sirloin  reared  its  head  in  vain  ; 

The  little  urchins  kicked  up  such  a  clatter, 
That  scarce  a  remnant  e'er  appeared  again. 

Then  came  the  School  bill :  Board  and  Education 
So  much  per  annum  ;  but  the  extras  mounted 

To  nearly  twice  the  primal  stipulation. 
And  every  little  bagatelle  was  counted  ! 

To  mending  tuck  ;  —  A  new  Homeri  Ilias  ;  — 

A  pane  of  glass  ;  —  Repairing  coat  and  breeches ; 

A  slate  and  pencil ;  —  Binding  old  Virgilius;  — 
Drawing  a  tooth ;  —  An  open  draft  and  leeches. 

And  now  I  languished  for  the  single  state, 

The  social  glass,  the  horse  and  chaise  on  Sunday, 

The  jaunt  to  Windsor  with  my  sweetheart  Kate, 
And  cursed  again  the  weekly  bills  of  Monday. 

Here  Kate  began  to  scold  —  I  stampt  and  swore. 
The  kittens  squeak,  the  children  loudly  scream ; 

And  thus  awaking  with  the  wild  uproar, 
I  thanked  mv  stars  that  it  was  but  a  dream. 


LAST  HOURS  OF  A  SINGLE  GENTLEMAN. 


ANONYMOUS. 


This  morning,  April  1,  at  half  past  eleven,  pre- 
cisely^, an  unfortunate  young  man,  Mr.  Edwin  Pink- 
nej,  underv/ent  the  extreme  penalty  of  infatuation,  by 
expiating  his  attachment  to  Mary  Ann  Gale,  in  front 
of  the  Altar  railings  of  St.  Mary's  Church,  Islington. 

It  will  be  ha  the  recollection  of  all  those  friends  of 
the  parties  wiio  were  at  the  Joneses'  party  at  Brixton, 
two  years  ago,  that  Mr.  Pinkney  was  there,  and 
there  first  introduced  to  Mary  Ann,  to  whom  he 
instantly  began  to  direct  particular  attentions  —  danc- 
ing with  her  no  less  than  six  sets  that  evening,  and 
handing  her  things  at  supper  in  the  most  devoted 
manner.  From  that  period  commenced  the  mtimacy 
between  them  which  terminated  in  this  morning's 
catastrophe. 

Poor  Pinkney  had  barely  attained  to  his  twenty- 
eighth  year ;  but  there  is  reason  to  believe  that, 
but  for  reasons  of  a  pecuniary  nature,  his  shigle  life 
would  have  come   earher  to   an  untimely  end.     A 


40  friendship's  gift. 

change  for  the  better,  however,  having  occurred  m 
his  circumstances,  the  young  lady's  friends  were 
induced  to  sanction  his  addresses,  and  thus  to  become 
accessories  to  the  course  for  wliich  he  has  just  suf- 
fered. 

The  unhappy  man  passed  the  last  night  of  his 
bachelor  existence  in  his  solitary  chamber.  From 
half-past  eight  to  ten,  he  was  busily  engaged  in  writ- 
ing letters.  Shortly  after  ten  o'clock,  his  younger 
brother  Henry  knocked  at  the  door,  when  the  doomed 
youth  told  him  in  a  firm  voice  to  come  in.  On  being 
asked  when  he  meant  to  go  to  bed,  he  rephed,  "  Not 
yet."  The  question  was  then  put  to  him  how  he 
thought  he  could  sleep  ;  to  which  his  answer  was,  "  I 
don't  know."  He  then  expressed  a  desire  for  a 
cigar  and  a  glass  of  grog,  which  were  supplied  him. 
His  brother,  w^ho  sat  do^Nii  and  partook  of  the  like 
refreshments,  now  demanded  if  he  would  want  any 
thing  more  that  night.  He  said,  "  Nothing,"  in  a 
firm  voice.  His  affectionate  brother  then  rose  to  take 
leave,  when  the  devoted  one  considerately^  advised 
huTi  to  take  care  of  himself. 

Precisely  at  a  quarter  of  a  minute  to  seven  the 
next  morning,  the  victim  of  Cupid,  having  been  called 
according  to  his  desire,  rose  and  promptly  dressed 
himself.  He  had  the  self-control  to  shave  himself 
without  the  slightest  injury ;  for  even  not  a  scratch 
upon  his  chin  appeared  after  the  operation.  It  would 
seem  that  he  had  devoted  a  lon<2:er  time  to  his  toilet 
than  usual. 


LAST    HOURS    OF    A    SINGLE    GENTLEMAN.  41 

The  wretched  man  was  attired  in  a  light  blue  dress- 
coat,  with  frosted  metal  buttons,  a  white  waisi>coat, 
and  nankeen  trousers,  w^ith  patent  leather  boots. 
He  w^ore  around  his  neck  a  variegated  satin  scarf, 
which  partially  concealed  the  Corazza  of  his  bosom. 
In  front  of  the  scarf  w^as  inserted  a  breast  pin  of  con- 
spicuous dimensions.  Having  descended  the  stair- 
case with  a  quick  step,  he  entered  the  apartment 
where  his  brother  and  a  few  friends  were  awaiting 
him.  He  shook  hands  cordially  with  all  present,  and 
on  bemg  asked  how  he  had  slept,  answered,  "  Very 
well,"  and  to  the  farther  demand  as  to  the  state  of 
his  mind,  he  said,  "  He  felt  happy." 

One  of  the  party  having  hereupon  suggested  that 
it  would  be  as  well  to  take  something  before  the  mel- 
ancholy ceremony  was  gone  through,  he  exclaimed 
with  some  emphasis,  "  Decidedly."  Breakfast  was 
accordingly  served,  when  he  ate  the  whole  of  a 
Frencli  roll,  a  large  round  of  toast,  two  sausages,  and 
three  new  laid  eggs,  which  he  washed  down  with  two 
great  breakfast  cups  of  tea.  In  reply  to  an  expres- 
sion of  astonishment  on  the  part  of  a  person  present, 
at  his  appetite,  he  declared  that  he  never  felt  it 
heartier  in  his  life. 

Having  inquired  the  time,  and  ascertained  that  it 

was  ten  minutes  to   eleven,  he  remarked,  that  "  it 

would  soon  be  over."     His  brother  then  inquired  if 

he   could   do   anything  for  him;  when  he   said  he 

3* 


49  friendship's  gift. 

should  like  to  have  a  glass  of  ale.  Having  drank 
this,  he  appeared  satisfied. 

The  fatal  moment  now  approaching,  he  devoted 
the  remaining  brief  portion  of  his  time  to  distributing 
among  his  friends  those  little  articles  which  he  would 
soon  no  longer  want.  To  one  he  gave  his  cigar  case, 
to  another  his  tobacco  stopper,  and  he  charged  his 
brother  Henry  with  his  latch  key,  with  instructions  to 
deliver  it  after  all  was  over,  with  due  solemnity,  to 
his  landlady. 

The  clock  at  length  struck  eleven;  and  at  the 
same  moment  he  was  informed  that  a  cab  was  at  the 
door.  He  merely  said,  "  I  am  ready,"  and  allowed 
himself  to  be  conducted  to  the  vehicle  ;  into  which 
he  got  with  his  brother  —  his  friends  followed  in 
others. 

Arrived  at  the  tragical  spot,  a  short  but  anxious 
delay  of  some  seconds  took  place ;  after  which  they 
were  joined  by  the  lady  with  her  friends.  Little  was 
said  on  either  side  ;  but  Miss  Gale,  with  customary 
decorum,  shed  tears.  Pinkney  endeavored  to  pre- 
serve a  composure  ;  but  a  slight  twitching  in  his 
mouth  and  eyebrows  proclaimed  his  inward  agitation. 

The  ill-starred  bachelor  having  submitted  quietly 
to  have  a  large  white  bow  pinned  to  his  button-hole, 
now  walked,  side  by  side  with  Miss  Gale,  with  a  finn 
step  to  the  altar.  He  surveyed  the  imposing  prepa- 
rations with  calmness :  and  gazed,  unmoved,  on  the 


LAST    HOURS    OF    A    SINGLE    GENTLEMAN.  43 

clergyman,  who,  assisted  by  the  clerk,  was  waiting 
behmd  the  railings. 

All  requisite  preliminaries  having  now  been  settled, 
and  the  prescribed  melancholy  formalities  gone 
through,  the  usual  question  was  put,  "  Wilt  thou 
have  this  w^oman  for  thy  wdfe  ?  "  To  which  the  rash 
youth  replied,  in  a  distinct  voice,  "  I  will."  He 
then  put  the  fatal  ring  upon  Miss  Gale's  finger  ;  the 
hymeneal  noose  was  adjusted,  and  the  poor  fellow 
was  launched  into  matrimony. 


THE   EVENING   STAR. 


BY    BARRY    CORNWALL. 

The  Evening  Star,  the  lover's  star, 
The  beautiful  star  comes  hither ! 

He  steereth  his  barque 

Through  the  azure  dark, 
And  brings  us  the  bright  blue  weather,  —  Love! 

The  beautiful  bright  blue  weather. 

The  birds  lie  dumb,  when  the  night  stars  come, 
And  silence  broods  o'er  the  covers; 

But  a  voice  now  wakes 

In  the  thorny  brakes. 
And  singeth  a  song  for  lovers,  —  Love ! 

A  sad  sweet  song  for  lovers ! 

It  singeth  a  song  of  grief  and  wrong, 
A  passionate  song  for  others; 

Yet  its  own  sweet  pain 

Can  never  be  vain. 
If  it  'wakeneth  love  in  others,  —  Love  ! 

It  'wakeneth  love  in  others. 


JACQUELINE. 


H.    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

Death  lies  on  her,  like  an  untimely  frost 
Upon  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  field. 

Shakspearb. 

"  Dear  mother,  is  it  not  the  bell  I  hear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mj  child ;  the  bell  for  morning  prayers. 
It  is  Sunday  to-day." 

"  I  had  forgotten  it.  But  now  all  days  are  ahke 
to  me.  Hark!  it  sounds  again  —  louder  —  louder. 
Open  the  window,  for  I  love  the  sound.  There  ;  the 
sunshine  and  the  fresh  morning  air  revive  me.  And 
the  church-bell  —  oh,  mother  —  it  rennnds  me  of  the 
holy  Sabbath  mornings  by  the  Loire  —  so  calm,  so 
hushed,  so  beautiful !  Now  give  me  my  prayer-book, 
and  draw  the  curtain  back,  that  I  may  see  the  green 
trees  and  the  church  spire.  I  feel  better  to-day, 
dear  mother." 

It  was  a  bright  cloudless  morning  in  August. 
The  dew  still  glistened  on  the  trees ;  and  a  slight 
breeze  wafted  to  the  sick  chamber  of  Jacqueline  the 


46  friendship's  gift. 

song  of  the  birds,  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  and  the 
solenm  chime  of  the  church-bells.  She  had  been 
raised  up  in  bed,  and  reclming  upon  the  pillow,  was 
gazing  wistfully  upon  the  quiet  scene  without.  Her 
mother  gave  her  the  prayer-book,  and  then  turned 
away  to  hide  a  tear  that  stole  down  her  cheek. 

At  length  the  bells  ceased.  Jacqueline  crossed 
herself,  kissed  a  pearl  crucifix  that  hung  around  her 
neck,  and  opened  the  silver  clasps  of  her  missal. 
For  a  time  she  seemed  wholly  absorbed  in  her 
devotions.  Her  Hps  moved,  but  no  soimd  was 
audible.  At  intervals  the  solemn  voice  of  the  priest 
was  heard  at  a  distance,  and  then  the  confused 
responses  of  the  congregation,  dying  away  in  inartic- 
ulate murmurs.  Ere  long  the  thrilling  chant  of  the 
Catholic  service  broke  upon  the  ear.  At  first  it  was 
low,  solemn,  and  indistinct ;  then  it  became  more 
earnest  and  entreating,  as  if  interceding,  and  im- 
ploring pardon  for  sin  ;  and  then  arose  louder  and 
louder,  full,  harmonious,  majestic,  as  it  wafted  the 
song  of  praise  to  heaven,  and  suddenly  ceased. 
Then  the  sweet  tones  of  the  organ  were  heard, — 
trem])ling,  thrilling,  and  rising  higher  and  higher, 
and  filling  the  whole  air  with  their  rich  melodious 
music.  What  exquisite  accords!  —  what  noble  har- 
monies !  —  what  touching  pathos  !  The  soul  of  the 
sick  girl  seemed  to  kindle  into  more  ardent  devotion, 
and  to  be  rapt  away  to  heaven  in  the  full  harmonious 
chorus,  as  it  swelled  onward,  doubling  and  redoubhng. 


JACQUELINE.  41f 

and  rolling  upward  in  a  full  burst  of  rapturous  devo- 
tion !  Then  all  was  hushed  again.  Once  more  the 
low  soimd  of  the  bell  smote  the  air,  and  announced 
the  elevation  of  the  host.  The  invalid  seemed 
entranced  in  prayer.  Her  book  had  fallen  beside 
her,  —  her  hands  were  clasped,  —  her  eyes  closed, 
—  her  soul  retired  within  its  secret  chambers.  Then 
a  more  triumphant  peal  of  bells  arose.  The  tears 
gushed  from  her  closed  and  swollen  lids  ;  her  cheek 
was  flushed  :  she  opened  her  dark  eyes,  and  fixed 
them  with  an  expression  of  deep  adoration  and  pen- 
itence upon  an  image  of  the  Saviour  on  the  cross, 
which  hung  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  and  her  lips  again 
moved  in  prayer.  Her  countenance  expressed  the 
deepest  resignation.  She  seemed  to  ask  only  that 
she  might  die  in  peace,  and  go  to  the  bosom  of  her 
Redeemer. 

The  mother  was  kneeling  by  the  wmdow,  Avith  her 
face  concealed  in  the  folds  of  the  curtain.  She  arose, 
and  going  to  the  bedside  of  her  child,  threw  her 
arms  around  her  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  dear  mother,  I  shall  not  live  long ;  I  feel  it 
here.  This  piercing  pain  —  at  times  it  seizes  me, 
and  I  cannot  —  cannot  breathe." 

''  My  child,  you  will  be  better  soon." 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  shall  be  better  soon.  All  tears, 
and  pain,  and  sorrow  will  be  over.  The  hymn  of 
adoration  and  entreaty  I  have  just  heard,  I  shall 
never  hear  again  on  earth.     Next  Sabbath,  mother. 


^  friendship's  gift. 

kneel  again  by  that  window  as  to-day.  I  shall  not  be 
here,  upon  this  bed  of  pam  and  sickness ;  but  when 
you  hear  the  solemn  hymn  of  worship,  and  the 
beseeching  tones  that  wing  the  spirit  up  to  God, 
think,  mother,  that  I  am  there, —  with  my  sweet 
sister  who  has  gone  before  us, —  kneehng  at  our 
Saviour's  feet,  and  happy  —  oh,  how  happy  !  " 

The  afflicted  mother  made  no  reply, —  her  heart 
was  too  full  to  speak. 

"  You  remember,  mother,  how  calmly  Amie  died. 
Poor  child,  she  was  so  young  and  beautiful !  I 
always  pray  that  I  may  die  as  she  did.  I  do  not  fear 
death  as  I  did  before  she  was  taken  from  us.  But 
oh  —  this  pain  —  this  cruel  pain  —  it  seems  to  draw 
my  muid  back  from  heaven.  When  it  leaves  me  I 
shall  die  in  peace." 

"  My  poor  child  !     God's  holy  will  be  done  !  " 

The  invahd  soon  sank  into  a  quiet  slumber.  The 
excitement  was  over,  and  exhausted  nature  sought 
rehef  in  sleep. 

The  persons  between  whom  this  scene  passed,  were 
a  widow  and  her  sick  daughter,  from  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Tom-s.  They  had  left  the  banks  of  the 
Loire  to  consult  the  more  experienced  physicians  of 
the  metropolis,  and  had  been  directed  to  the  Maison 
tie  Sante  at  Auteuil  for  the  benefit  of  the  pm-e  air. 
But  all  in  vain.  The  health  of  the  suffering  but 
uncomplaining  patient  grew  worse  and  worse,  and  it 
soon  became  evident  that  the  closing  scene  was 
drawing  near. 


JACQUELINE.  49 

Of  this  Jacqueline  herself  seemed  conscious  ;  and 
towards  evening  she  expressed  a  wish  to  receive  the 
last  sacraments  of  the  church.  A  priest  was  sent 
for  ;  and  ere  long  the  tinkling  of  a  little  bell  in  the 
street  announced  his  approach.  He  bore  in  his  hand 
a  silver  vase  containing  the  consecrated  wafer,  and  a 
small  vessel  filled  -with  the  holj  oil  of  the  extreme 
unction  hung  from  his  neck.  Before  him  walked  a 
boy  carrying  a  little  bell,  whose  sound  announced  the 
passing  of  these  symbols  of  the  Cathohc  faith.  In 
the  rear,  a  few  of  the  villagers,  bearing  lighted  wax 
tapers,  formed  a  short  and  melancholy  procession. 
They  soon  entered  the  sick  chamber,  and  the  glim- 
mer of  the  tapers  mmgled  with  the  red  light  of  the 
setting  sun,  that  shot  his  farewell  rays  through  the 
open  window.  The  vessel  of  oil,  and  the  vase  con- 
taining the  consecrated  wafer,  were  placed  upon  the 
table  in  front  of  a  crucifix  that  hung  upon  the  wall, 
and  all  present,  excepting  the  priest,  threw  themselves 
upon  their  knees.  The  priest  then  approached  the 
bed  of  the  dying  girl,  and  said,  in  a  slow  and  solemn 
tone,  — 

''  The  King  of  kings  and  Lord  of  lords  has  passed 
thy  threshold.     Is  thy  spirit  ready  to  receive  him?" 

"  It  is,  father." 

"  Hast  thou  confessed  thy  sins  ?  " 

"  Holy  father,  no." 

"  Confess  thyself,  then,  that  thy  sins  may  be  for- 
given and  thy  name  recorded  in  the  book  of  life." 
4 


50  friendship's  gift. 

And  turning  to  the  kneeling  crowd  around,  he 
waved  his  hand  for  them  to  retire,  and  was  left  alone 
^vith  the  sick  girl.  He  seated  himself  beside  her 
pillow,  and  the  subdued  w^hisper  of  the  confession 
mingled  with  the  murmur  of  the  evening  air,  which 
lifted  the  heavy  folds  of  the  curtains,  and  stole  in 
upon  the  holy  scene.  Poor  Jacquehne  had  few  sins 
to  confess,  —  a  secret  thought  or  two  towards  the 
pleasures  and  dehghts  of  the  world,  —  a  wish  to  live, 
unuttered,  but  which  to  the  eye  of  her  self-accusmg 
spirit  seemed  to  resist  the  wise  providence  of  God  ;  — 
no  more.  The  confession  of  a  meek  and  lowdy  heart 
is  soon  made.  The  door  was  again  opened  ;  the 
attendants  entered,  and  knelt  around  the  bed,  and 
the  priest  proceeded,  — 

"  And  now  prepare  thyself  to  receive  with  contrite 
heart  the  body  of  our  blessed  Lord  and  Redeemer. 
Dost  thou  believe  that  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  was 
conceived  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  born  of  the  Virgin 
Mary  ?  " 

"  I  believe." 

And  all  present  joined  in  the  solemn  response  — 

"  I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  beheve  that  the  Father  is  God,  that 
the  son  is  God,  and  that  the  Holy  Spirit  is  God,  — 
three  persons  and  one  God  ?  " 

"  I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  the  Son  is  seated  on  the 


JACQUELINE.  51 

right-hand  of  the  Majesty  on  high,  whence  he  shall 
come  to  judge  the  quick  and  the  dead  ?  " 

"  I  beUeve." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  by  the  holy  sacraments  of 
the  church  thy  sins  are  forgiven  thee,  and  that  thus 
thou  art  made  worthy  of  eternal  life  ?  " 

"  I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  pardon,  with  all  thy  heart,  all  who 
have  offended  thee  in  thought,  word,  or  deed  ?  " 

"  I  pardon  them." 

"  And  dost  thou  ask  pardon  of  God  and  thy  neigh- 
bor for  all  offences  thou  hast  committed  against  them, 
■either  in  thought,  word,  or  deed  ?  " 

'^Ido/' 

"  Then  repeat  after  me  :  0  Lord  Jesus,  I  am  not 
worthy,  nor  do  I  merit,  that  thy  divine  Majesty 
should  enter  this  poor  tenement  of  clay  ;  but  accord- 
ing to  thy  holy  promises  be  my  sins  forgiven,  and  my 
soul  washed  white  from  all  transgression." 

Then  taking  a  consecrated  wafer  from  the  vase,  he 
placed  it  between  the  lips  of  the  dying  girl,  and 
while  the  assistant  sounded  the  httle  silver  bell, 
said,  — 

"  Corjnis  Domini  nost7i  Jesu  Christi  custodiat 
animam  tuam  in  vitam  eternamy 

And  the  kneeling  crowd  smote  their  breasts  and 
responded  in  one  solemn  voice,  — 

"Amen!" 

The  priest  then  took  from  the  silver  box  on  the 


'98  FRIENDSHIP  S    GIFT. 

table  a  little  golden  rod,  and  dipping  it  in  holy  oil, 
annointed  the  invalid  upon  the  hands,  feet,  and  breast, 
in  the  form  of  tlie  cross.  "When  these  ceremonies 
were  comi)leted,  the  priest  and  his  attendants  retired, 
leaving  the  mother  alone  with  her  dying  child,  who, 
from  the  exhaustion  caused  by  the  preceding  scene, 
sank  mto  a  death-like  sleep. 

"Between  two  worlds  life  hovered  like  a  star, 
'Twixt  niglit  and  moni  ii})on  ihe  horizon's  verge." 

The  long  twilight  of  the  summer  evening  stole  on  ; 
the  shadows  deepened  without,  and  the  night-lamp 
glimmered  feebly  in  the  sick  chamber  ;  but  still  she 
slept.  She  was  lying  with  her  hands  clasped  upon 
her  breast,  —  her  pallid  cheek  resting  upon  the 
pillow,  and  her  bloodless  lips  apart,  but  motionless 
and  silent  as  the  sleep  of  death.  Not  a  breath  m- 
terrupted  the  silence  of  her  slumber.  Not  a  move- 
ment of  the  heavy  and  sunken  eyelid  —  not  a  tremble 
of  the  lip,  not  a  shadow  on  the  marble  brow,  told 
when  the  spirit  took  its  flight.  It  passed  to  a  better 
world  than  this. 

"There's  a  perpetual  spring,  —  perpetual  youth; 
No  joint-])enunihing  cold,  nor  scorching  heat, 
Famine  nor  age,  have  any  being  there." 


OUR  YANKEE  SHIPS. 


JAMES    T.    FIELDS. 

Our  Yankee  ships !  in  fleet  career, 

They  linger  not  behind, 
Where  galhint  sails  fiom  other  lands- 
Court  favoring  tide  and  wind. 

With  banners  on  the  breeze,  they  leap 
As  gaily  o'er  the  foam 

As  stately  barks  from  prouder  seas, 
That  long  have  learned  to  roam. 

The  Indian  wave  with  luring  smiles 

Swept  round  them  bright  to-day. 
And  havens  to  Atlantic  i>?les 

Are  opening  on  their  way; 
Ere  yet  these  evening  shailows  close, 

Or  this  frail  song  is  o'er. 
Full  inany  a  straining  mast  will  rise 

To  greet  a  foreign  shore. 

High  up  the  lashing  Northern  deep, 
Where  glimmering  watch-lights  beam 

Away  in  beauty  where  the  stars 
In  tropic  brightness  gleam  ; 

4* 


54  OUR    YANKEE    SHIPS. 

Where  'cr  the  sea-bird  wets  her  beak, 

Or  blows  the  stormy  gale  ; 
On  to  the  Water's  farthest  verge, 

Our  ships  majestic  sail. 

They  dip  their  keels  in  every  stream 

That  mirrors  back  the  sky ; 
And  where  the  restless  billows  heave, 

Their  lofty  pennants  fly  ; 
They  furl  their  sails  in  threatening  clouda 

That  float  across  the  main, 
To  link  with  love  earth's  distant  bays 

In  many  a  golden  chain. 

They  deck  our  halls  with  sparkling  gems, 

That  shone  on  Orient  strands, 
And  garlands  round  the  hills  they  bind. 

From  far-off  sunny  lands  ; 
But  we  will  ask  no  gaudy  wreath 

From  foreign  clime  or  realm, 
Willie  safely  glides  our  ship  of  State 

With  Genius  at  the  helm. 


THE  MELANCHOLY  MAN. 


BY    THEODORE    S.    FAY. 

Mav.  —  I  feel  'tis  so. 
Thus  have  I  been  since  first  the  plague  broke  out, 
A  term,  methinks,  of  many  hundred  years ! 
As  if  the  world  were  heJl,  and  I  condemned 
To  walk  through  wo  to  all  eternity. 
I  will  do  suicide. 

Astrologer  —  Thou  canst  not,  fool ! 
Thou  lovest  life  with  all  its  agonies  ; 
Buy  ])oison,  and  'twill  lie  for  years  untouched 
Beneath  thy  pillow,  when  thy  midnight  horrors 
Are  at  iheir  worst.     Coward !  thou  canst  not  die. 

WUsoii's  City  of  the  Plague. 

I  HAVE  been  all  my  life  haunted  with  a  desire  to 
commit  suicide.  It  has  crossed  me — it  stiU  crosses 
me  continually.  It  is  partly  the  result  of  constitu- 
tion, and  partly  of  early  and  frequent  misfortunes, 
and  a  habit  of  brooding  over  them.  This  dreadful 
disease  has  for  ever  caused  me  to  look  with  sickly 
eves  on  the  charms  of  life  and  the  beauties  of  nature. 
I  shall  not  here  write   any  Idstory  of  myself.     It 


56  friendship's  gift. 

would  not  interest  others.  Those  incidents  which 
have  made  me  wretched,  happier  dispositions  would 
soon  forget.  /  can  never  forget  them.  I  feel  that 
mv  game  of  life  has  been  played  and  lost.  Those 
secret  springs  of  joy  and  hope,  which  give  elasticity 
to  other  minds,  in  me  are  broken.  I  have  been 
always  struggling  against  the  current ;  and  sometimes, 
nay  often,  it  has  appeared  to  me  as  if  some  awful  and 
inexorable  power  were  present  at  my  undertakings, 
and  took  a  mysterious  delight  in  bringing  them  to 
ruin.  True,  my  reason  often  teaches  me  that  this  is 
merely  an  absurd  fancy,  and  that  it  cannot  be.  Yet 
/  tliink  it  is,  and  that  is  sufficient  to  make  me  wretch- 
ed. Sometimes,  in  the  endeavor  to  coml»at  this  opin- 
ion as  a  superstition,  I  have  compelled  myself  to 
embark  in  a  design,  or  to  entertain  an  affection  ;  but 
invariably  I  have  met  with  such  severe  disappoint- 
ments, that  I  have  long  since  ceased  to  hope.  When 
I  first  reached  the  years  of  manhood,  I  found  this  in 
all  my  pecuniary  business.  Stock  fell  if  I  touched 
it ;  banks  broke  as  soon  as  I  became  interested. 
The  fable  relates,  that  whatever  the  celebrated  king 
of  Phrygia  touched,  turned  to  gold.  "Wherever  /  laid 
my  hand,  I  was  sure  to  produce  destruction.  At 
length  I  have  grown  so  timid,  that  I  am  afraid  to  love, 
afraid  to  form  a  friendship,  afraid  to  offer  advice. 
He  who  peruses  this,  will  doul)tless  smile  incredulous- 
ly on  me  ;  he  will  say  it  is  an  impossibility.  Well, 
let  liim.     Indeed  it  seems  equally  so  to  me.     I  have 


THE    MELANCHOLY   MAN.  57 

racked  mj  brain  to  believe  it  merely  an  accidental 
train  of  unfavorable  events,  which  to-morrow  may 
change ;  yet  it  has  not  changed,  and  I  am  half  fain 
to  abandon  myself  to  the  startling  and  terrible 
thought,  that  I  am  branded  with  some  mysterious 
curse.  Whatever  may  be  the  cause,  I  am  miserable, 
and  always  have  been  so  beyond  description.  I  look 
for  nothing  this  side  the  grave. 

I  became  acquainted,  sometime  ago,  with  a  Httle 
girl,  eight  or  nine  years  old,  with  unusual  powers  of 
mind  and  charms  of  person.  The  sight  of  her  face 
positively  dispelled  the  shadows  which  brooded  over 
my  mind.  She  discovered  a  singular  attachment  to 
me.  I  was  delighted  with  her  thousand  winning 
ways.  I  was  almost  happy  while  under  the  influence 
of  her  irrepressible  happiness.  It  was  a  joy  for  me 
to  meet  her  in  the  street.  I  have  caught  a  gleam  of 
her  beautiful  bright  countenance,  amid  a  group  of  her 
companions  going  to  school  early  in  the  morning, 
which  haunted  me  all  day. 

"Shall  I  love  this  creature?"  said  I  to  myself; 
"  will  it  not  be  bringing  down  upon  her  sweet  young 
head  the  dark  influence  which  has  ever  pursued  me 
and  mine  ?  Yes,"  said  I,  "  I  ivill  love  her.  I  will 
once  more  try  this  fearful  experiment.  I  will  watch 
to  see  in  what  form  the  efiects  of  my  interest  in  her 
welfare  will  fall  on  her ;  to  what  doom  it  will  consign 
her  ?  Will  the  turf  soon  press  her  tender  breast  ? 
Will  some  moui-nful  doom  darken  her  hvinor  heart  ?  " 


88  friendship's  gift. 

I  made  these  reflections  one  morning  as  she  passed 
me,  with  a  smile,  in  the  street. 

One  week  after,  a  single  line  in  the  newspaper 
answered  my  interrogatories.  She  had  died  of  a 
sudden  and  painful  attack  of  the  scarlet  fever.  As  I 
perused  the  information,  I  positively  thought  I  heard 
the  laugh  of  a  demon  in  my  ear,  whispered  on  the 
passing  breeze. 

It  is  not  one,  two,  nor  indeed  twenty  circumstances 
of  this  kind  which  could  have  alone  prostrated  my 
love  of  hfe  so  utterly.  I  never  had  a  real  friend, 
except  my  mother,  and  she  died  just  w^hen  I  was  old 
enough  to  moui-n  for  her  acutely.  Among  my  other 
tortures,  disease  has  not  been  wanting.  A  violent 
pain  in  my  chest  has,  at  certain  intervals,  incapaci- 
tated me  for  all  employment.  Sometimes  my  head 
grows  dizzy,  or  burns  with  shooting  pains.  I  feel 
like  Caliban,  forever  contending  against  a  supernatu- 
ral enemy,  whose  spirits  appear  busy  about  me. 
That  speech  of  the  deformed  monster  ever  haunts  my 
memory : 

"  For  every  trifle  they  are  set  upon  me  : 
Sometimes  like  apes,  that  mow  and  chatter  at  me, 
And  after,  hite  me ;  then,  hke  hedgehogs,  which 
Lie  timihhng  in  my  barefoot  way,  and  mount 
Their  {)ricks  at  my  footfall.      Sometimes  I  am 
All  vvound  with  adders,  who,  with  cloven  tongues,  - 
Do  hiss  me  ijito  madness." 


THE    MELANCHOLY    MAN.  &^ 

The  idea  of  being  perpetually  encumbered  with  a 
disease,  which,  while  it  takes  from  your  heart  the 
secret  hope  that  leads  to  action,  does  not  exclude 
you  from  the  necessities  of  toil,  is  one  of  the  most  be- 
numbing and  wretched  evils  that  man  can  suffer.  He 
wanders  through  the  crowd,  without  participating  in 
their  gladness.  He  gazes  on  nature  with  an  admira- 
tion which  only  heightens  his  inward  anguish.  In 
the  most  soft  and  alluring  periods  of  pleasure,  the 
loathsome  image  of  a  grave  continually  obtrudes  itself 
upon  his  imagination ;  the  icy  hand  of  death  is  ever 
on  his  shoulder,  and  he  hears  the  phantom  whispering, 
"  Victim  of  my  unrelenting  power,  haste  ye  through 
these  sunny  scenes ;  in  a  short  time  you  must  quit 
them  forever."  I  have  felt  all  this  ;  who  can  wonder 
that  I  am  tired  of  life  ?  I  have  loved  in  this  world 
but  few,  and  none  successfully.  No  man,  nor  wo- 
man, nor  child  has  ever  been  to  me  other  than  as 
gleamings  of  what  my  fellow  creatures  have  enjoyed. 
I  recoil  from  one  who  excites  in  me  any  feehngs  of 
affection.  No  one  shall  suffer  the  fatahty  of  my 
friendship.  Who  is  shocked  to  learn  that  I  covet  my 
last  sleep  ?  Death,  mysterious  power  !  language  can- 
not express  the  intense  curiosity  with  which  I  have 
watched  every  thing  appertaining  to  it.  Yes,  I  have 
pursued  the  ghastly  phantom  in  all  its  forms.  I  have 
gone  to  the  prison  house,  and  pryed  into  the  mind  of 
the  felon  who  was  at  the  break  of  day  to  expiate  his 
crimes  on  the  scaffold.     I  have  planted  myself  there 


QO  friendship's  gift. 

to  behold  him  take  his  last  gaze  for  ever  and  for  ever 
on  the  sky,  the  green  earth,  the  river,  the  light.  How 
strange  it  has  seemed  that  he,  that  being,  that  breath- 
ing, living  creature,  formed  as  I  am,  who  speaks,  and 
thinks,  and  utters  requests,  and  walks,  and  takes  me 
by  the  hand  to  say  farewell ;  how  difficult  to  conceive, 
how  awful,  how  deeply  thrilling  to  reflect  that,  in  one 
minute  more,  he  will  not  exist  I  That  which  addresses 
you  now,  ivill  not  he.  Its  semblance  only  will  remain, 
to  mock  you,  with  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  original 
nature  you  had  held  communion  with.  I  once  formed 
a  vague  resolution  of  suicide,  and  I  thus  strengthened 
it.  I  wished  to  become  familiar  with  death.  I  would 
gaze  quietly  on  him,  and  apply  what  I  saw  concern- 
ing him  to  myself,  I  strained  my  fancy  to  conceive 
how  /  should  feel,  and  act,  and  appear  in  such  a 
crisis.  I  have  held  a  loaded  pistol  to  my  brain  some- 
times, or  a  vial  of  poison  to  my  lips  ;  or  I  have  stood 
leaning  over  the  edge  of  a  dizzy  height ;  or  I  have 
looked  down  into  the  clear  ocean  billows,  and  goaded 
myself  on  to  pass  the  dreadful  gulf.  Alas  I  coward 
that  I  was,  I  feared  to  die  as  Avell  as  to  live,  and 
have  turned  to  my  lonely  walk  with  a  relief,  and  put 
off  till  some  other  period  the  execution  of  the  design. 
One  day  I  met  a  fine  fellow,  from  whom  I  had 
been  separated  many  years.  He  was  a  scholar  and 
an  observer,  and,  some  how  or  other,  he  had  the  art 
to  draw  from  me  an  account  of  the  true  state  of  my 
fcehngs. 


THE    MELANCHOLY    MAN.  61 

"  Pray,"  said  he,  when  I  had  finished  pretty  much 
what  I  have  related  above  ;  "  pray,  what  time  do  you 
rise  ? " 

"  At  ten,"  said  I,  rather  surprised  at  the  oddity  of 
the  question. 

"  And  what  time  do  you  retire  to  bed  ?  " 

"At  one,  two,  or  three  o'clock,"  said  I,  "just  as 
it  happens." 

"  And  how  is  your  appetite  ?  " 

"  Enormous." 

"  And  you  gratify  it  to  —  ?  " 

"  The  full  extent." 

"  What  do  you  drink  ?  " 

"  Brandy  and  water,  gin  and  water,  &c." 

He  laughed  heartily,  although  it  made  me  angry  ; 
also,  I  confess,  it  made  me  excessively  ashamed  to 
have  talked  about  suicide. 

"  Do  you  know  what  ails  you  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  I  have  a  broken  heart." 

"  Broken  fiddlestick,"  said  he,  "  you  have  the  dys- 
pepsy.  Diet  yourself ;  go  to  bed  early ;  rise  early  ; 
exercise  much." 

I  have  done  so  ;  I  am  now  a  healthy  and  a  happy 
man.     I  smile  to  thmk  I  was  going  to  blow  my  brains 
out,  because  I  had  the  dyspepsy. 
5 


THE  OLD  WORLD. 


BY  GEORGE  LUNT. 

There  was  once  a  world,  and  a  brave  old  world, 

Away  ill  the  ancient  time, 
When  tlie  men  were  brave  and  the  women  fair, 

And  the  world  was  in  its  prime  ; 
And  the  priest  he  had  his  book, 

And  the  scholar  had  his  gown, 
And  the  old  knight  stout,  he  walked  about, 

With  his  broad  sword  hanging  down. 

Ye  may  see  this  world  was  a  brave  old  world, 

In  the  days  long  past  and  gone, 
And  the  sun  it  shone,  and  the  rain  it  rained. 

And  the  world  went  merrily  on. 
The  shepherd  kept  his  sheep, 

And  the  milkmaid  milked  the  kine. 
And  the  serving  man  was  a  sturdy  loon, 

In  a  cap  and  a  doublet  fine. 

And  I  've  been  told  in  this  brave  old  world. 

There  were  jolly  times  and  free. 
And  they  danced  and  sung,  till  the  welkin  rung, 

All  under  the  greenwood  tree. 


THE    OLD    WORLD.  63 

The  sexton  chimed  his  sweet,  sweet  bells, 

And  the  huntsman  blew  his  horn, 
And  the  hunt  went  out  with  a  merry  shout, 

Beneath  the  jovial  morn. 

Oh  !  the  golden  days  of  the  brave  old  world 

Made  hall  and  cottage  shine  ; 
The  squire  he  sat  in  his  oaken  chair, 

And  quaffed  the  good  red  wine  ; 
The  lovely  village  maiden, 

She  was  the  village  queen. 
And,  by  the  mass,  tript  through  the  grass 

To  the  May-pole  on  the  green. 

When  trumpets  roused  this  brave  old  world, 

And  the  banners  flaunted  wide, 
The  knight  bestrode  the  stalwart  steed, 

The  page  rode  by  his  side  ; 
And  plumes  and  pennons  tossing  bright. 

Dashed  through  the  wild  melee. 
And  he  who  prest  amid  them  best 

Was  lord  of  all,  that  day. 

And  ladies  fair,  in  the  brave  old  world, 

They  ruled  with  wondrous  sway;  ' 

But  the  stoutest  knight  was  lord  of  right, 

As  the  strongest  is  to-day. 
The  baron  bold  he  kept  his  hold. 

Her  bower  his  bright  ladye, 
But  the  forester  kept  the  good  greenwood. 

All  under  the  greenwood  tree. 

Oh,  how  they  laughed  in  the  brave  old  world, 

And  flung  grim  care  away! 
And  when  they  were  tired  of  working, 

They  held  it  time  to  play. 


64  friendship's  gift. 

The  bookman  was  a  reverend  wight, 

With  a  studious  face  so  pale, 
And  the  curfew  bell,  with  its  sullen  swell, 

Broke  duly  on  the  gale. 

And  so  passed  on,  in  the  brave  old  world. 

Those  merry  days  and  free  ; 
The  king  drank  wine,  and  the  clown  drank  ale, 

Each  man  in  his  degree. 
And  some  ruled  well,  and  some  ruled  ill. 

And  thus  passed  on  the  time, 
With  jolly  ways  in  those  brave  old  days, 

When  the  world  was  in  its  prime. 


o 


</c^4^y  L^iTyCC^zctiT/y. 


Uicir  patiye  skies. 


Soft  sw; 


•It  oi  coDimaJi' 


66  friendship's  gift. 

There  was  no  heart  that  quailed  — 
No  steel  remahied  unclasped: 

But  every  eye  flashed  forth  in  zeal, 
And  every  hilt  was  grasped  ! 

Amidst  that  dreadful  strife, 

They  fell  as  warriors  fall ! 
Their  life  was  to  their  country  pledged  — 

Its  banner  is  their  pall ! 

With  love  like  that  which  glows 

Within  a  brother's  breast, 
Their  comrades  seek  their  loved  remains, 

And  bring  tliem  here  to  rest. 

Oh !  't  was  a  mournful  task 
To  seek  the  gallant  dead  — 

To  lift  again  the  clay-cold  form. 
And  fresh,  warm  tears  to  shed. 

Hang  up  their  honored  sword, 
Enwreathed  with  laurel  bough  — 

And  on  their  breast  the  olive  lay. 
For  they  sleep  peaceful  now. 


THE  DIVINITY  STUDENT. 


ANONYMOUS. 

"  I  DARE  say  you  have  all  seen  the  poor  forlorn 
crazy  man,  John  Philips,  who  used  to  go  about  the 
country  dressed  sometimes  in  petticoats,  sometimes  in 
trousers,  but  always  with  such  a  strange  motley  mass 
of  duds  hanging  about  him,  that  it  was  difficult  to 
guess  whether  he  was  a  man  or  woman,  till  the  evi- 
dence of  his  long  matted  beard  settled  the  doubt." 
"  I  remember  him  well,"  cried  both  man  and  wife, 
"  poor  harmless  object.  He  was  always  asserting 
that  he  was  like  St.  Paul,  for  too  much  learning  had 
made  him  mad."  ''  Too  true,  too  true  indeed,"  said 
Simon,  with  a  tear  ghttering  in  his  eye.  "  Too 
much  learning  did  make  admirable  John  Philips  mad ! 
There  was  not  a  cleverer  nor  a  better  lad  in  Scotland 
than  he,  and  he  might  have  raised  himself  to  any 
office  in  the  kingdom  by  taking  the  right  course,  so 
splendid  were  his  talents,  so  delightful  his  disposition, 
—  but  nothing  would  satisfy  his  mother  unless  John 
would  be  a  minister.      He  obeyed  her,  —  and   you 


68  friendship's  gift. 

have  seen  the  result.  After  ha\ing  learned  reading, 
and  writing,  and  arithmetic,  and  read  more  books 
than  half  the  bojs  of  his  rank  read  in  a  Ufe-time, — 
his  character  for  ability,  integrity,  and  sound  sense, 
was  such,  that  when  only  thirteen  years  old,  he  would 
have  been  taken  by  a  respectable  and  thriving  mer- 
chant as  under-clerk.  With  this  gentleman  he  was 
sure  to  rise,  and  he  would,  in  all  human  probability, 
have  raised  every  member  of  his  family  along  with 
him,  so  kind,  so  dutiful,  so  good  was  he ;  but  all  that 
would  not  do  for  his  mother,  so  to  Latm  he  went. 
For  a  while  the  increased  industry  of  father  and 
mother  sufficed  to  meet  the  ever-mcreasing  expense  : 
but  by  the  time  he  got  to  college,  the  younger  chil- 
dren beofan  to  be  abrid^red  of  their  teachinoc.  First, 
the  girls  got  no  arithmetic,  —  then  the  boys,  —  next, 
the  youngest  girl  was  not  taught  to  write,  and  the 
youngest  boy  could  hardly  read,  and  could  neither 
write  nor  spell  when  he  was  taken  from  school. 
'  John  would  make  up  all  that  to  them,  and  more, 
when  he  came  home,'  was  their  mother's  consolation 
for  their  and  her  privations.  The  cliildren's  and  the 
father's  Sunday  clothes  became  their  every-day  wear, 
and  no  new,  hardy,  home-made  jackets  and  trousers 
supplied  their  place.  Mirth  and  glee  no  longer 
resounded  in  their  cottage,  but  long  toil,  long  fasts, 
and  scanty  fare  came  in  their  stead. 

"  Meanwhile,   John   at   College   labored  day  and 
night,  pinched  himself  of  food  and  fire,  and  saved  his 


THE    DIVINITY    STUDENT.  69 

poor  mother's  hard-earned  pittance  to  the  very  utter- 
most. During  the  vacations  he  saw  the  ruin  at  home, 
and  a  voice  seemed  constantly  sounding  in  his  heart, 
'  Tliis  is  all  for  me  !  '  Instead  of  spending  his  time 
in  his  studies,  he  labored  with  his  hands,  and  did  his 
uttermost  at  every  vacant  hour  to  bring  up  the  educar 
tion  of  the  brothers  and  sisters  who  had  been  sacri- 
ficed for  liim.  His  eldest  sister  went  out  to  service 
and  also  to  harvest-work,  and  when  he  was  ready  to 
depart  for  college  in  November,  she  gave  him  a  little 
packet,  which  he  was  not  to  open  till  he  got  to  his 
lodgmgs,  and,  when  he  got  there,  he  found  with  a 
bursting  heart  that  it  contained  all  her  wages  ! 

^'  His  sad,  pale  countenance,  perpetual  diligence, 
and  great  talents  and  merits  as  a  scholar,  had  not 
passed  unnoticed  by  the  professors ;  and  when  he 
went  for  his  Greek  ticket,  the  worthy  man,  with  many 
complimentary  and  kind  expressions,  presented  it  to 
him  gratis.  Another  —  the  professor  of  Logic,  did 
the  same.  Still  this  generosity,  and  his  utmost  efforts 
and  most  rigid  economy,  could  not  save  him  from 
wants  ;  the  second  winter  was  worse  and  severer  than 
either ;  each  succeeding  season  becommg  more  and 
more  grievous,  as  his  means  and  his  strength  and  his 
spirit  faded  away. 

"  So  passed  some  dismal  years  of  his  novitiate,  ere 
the  time  came  when  he  could  obtain  a  license  to 
preach.  And  during  that  sad  and  dreary  period, 
whether  at  home  or  at  college,  his  labors  and  anxie- 


70  friendship's  gift. 

ties  increased.  In  his  lodgings,  by  the  hght  of  a 
wretched  lamp,  he  sat,  hour  after  hour,  toiling  his 
overwrought  brains,  grudging  himself  sleep  and  food, 
and  even  the  foul  and  putrid  oil  by  the  smoky  flame 
of  which  he  was  striving  to  write  ;  for,  his  thoughts 
constantly  flew  home,  where,  in  imagination,  he  saw 
the  ceaseless  labors  of  his  dear  and  indulgent  parents, 
and  the  wan  faces  and  scanty  meals  and  extinguished 
light  of  their  once  joyful  fireside.  When  at  home,  he 
wrote  sermons,  he  wrote  for  magazines  —  for  reviews 
—  he  attempted  to  teach  here  and  there.  His  ser- 
mons were  dead  stock,  his  papers  were  ill-received 
and  worse  paid,  at  the  best,  -^  and  were  oftener  re- 
jected than  admitted.  As  for  his  plans  of  teaching, 
to  whatever  hand  he  turned,  he  still  found  his  pov- 
erty the  cause  of  his  continuing  poor  ;  for  in  spite  of 
all  he  could  do,  his  small  winnings  never  sufficed  to 
furnish  his  wardrobe  so  as  to  enable  him  to  dress  per- 
manently in  a  manner  becoming  his  situation  and 
views,  because  it  always  appeared  to  him  that  nothing 
he  could  win  was  his  own,  mitil  he  had  replaced  his 
parents  and  sisters  and  brothers  in  that  state  of  com- 
fort from  which  their  lil)erality  to  him  had  thrust 
them.  His  teaching,  therefore,  was  confined  to  those 
of  the  humblest  rank,  and  even  in  this  lowly  task, 
his  best  feelings  interposed  to  obstruct  him.  In  his 
ovm  parish,  every  scholar  he  could  obtain  must  have 
been  taken  from  the  worthy,  generous  teacher,  who 
had  been  his  own  early  and  liberal  patron  ;  and,  by 


THE    DIVINITY    STUDENT.  71 

going  to  any  neighboring  parish,  with  the  least  pros- 
pect of  success,  he  must  have  encountered  a  walk  of 
six  or  seven  miles,  morning  and  evening ;  or  else  go 
into  lodgings,  the  expense  of  which  all  his  emolu- 
ments would  not  defray.  Meek  and  retiring,  he  was 
easily  rebuffed ;  and  what  in  happier  circumstances 
he  would  have  received  as  a  jest,  —  he  now  shrunk 
from  as  a  rebuke  or  repulse,  on  which  he  would  ru- 
minate until  his  mind  was  filled  with  images  of 
despair. 

"  At  length,  the  eighth  important  session  came  ; 
and  as  the  period  of  his  examination  approached, 
these  paroxysms  of  anxiety  and  desperation  became 
more  frequent  and  intense  ;  and  during  his  strenuous 
and  almost  incessant  labors  in  preparation,  which  all 
but  himself  deemed  nearly  superfluous,  his  sleep  for- 
sook him  and  he  lost  all  inclination  for  food.  He  sat 
continually  poring  over  his  books  and  papers,  and  be- 
gan to  feel  with  considerable  alarm,  that  his  mind 
wandered  from  the  subjects  of  his  study,  and  that  he 
made  no  advance  in  Ms  preparations.  He  doubled 
his  efforts  and  increased  the  evil !  He  started  to  find 
he  was  often  speaking  to  himself  of  he  knew  not 
what ;  and  vainly  tried  to  retrace  his  thoughts.  Even 
while  making  the  effort  his  mind  wandered  again,  and 
he  was  haunted  by  an  undefinable  dread,  a  horrible 
suspicion  that  he  was  becoming  insane. 

"  The  period  for  examination  came  —  and  though 
his  mind  was  in  the  most  deplorable  uproar,  such  was 


72  friendship's  gift. 

the  high  place  he  held  in  the  good  opinion  and  good 
will  of  every  member  of  the  presbytery  to  whom  his 
life  and  character  were  known,  that  he  was  passed 
without  the  shghtest  difficulty ;  his  confused  answers 
and  bewildered  air  being  imputed  to  the  overwhelming 
diffidence  so  often  the  attendant  on  real  merit  and 
genius. 

^'  He  was  in  arrears  to  his  landlady,  but  she  trusted 
one  who  was  so  sober  and  who  had  paid  her  hitherto  ; 
and  in  a  somewhat  more  comfortable  state  of  feeling 
he  returned  home . 

"  He  had  now  obtained  the  object  of  his  own  and 
his  parent's  ardent  mshes.  He  quitted  the  university 
with  the  esteem  and  admiration  of  his  teachers  — 
his  hcense  in  his  pocket,  and  complimented  by  the 
presbytery  on  his  worth  and  talents.  AYhat  did  it  all 
avail  ?  —  Who  would,  who  could  employ  a  star^dng 
half-clothed  lad,  more  like  a  mendicant  than  a  min- 
ister of  the  gospel  ?  His  coat  was  threadbare,  his 
linen  in  rags,  everything  worn  out.  On  his  way 
home,  as  soon  as  he  was  clear  of  the  city,  he  turned 
off  the  high  road,  and  to  save  his  shoes  and  stockings, 
took  them  off  and  pursued  his  way  over  the  trackless 
hills  upon  his  naked  feet ! 

"  But  in  spite  of  all  his  care,  at  last  his  wardrobe 
was  worn  out,  and  he  blushed  to  ask  any  one  to  rec- 
ommend him  even  as  a  tutor.  Even  if  he  did  pre- 
sume to  do  so,  what  family  would  receive  him  in  that 
or  any  other  capacity  !     Here  then  he  must  stay,  an 


THE    DIVINITY    STUDENT.  73 

unceasing  burthen  on  his  beloved  parents,  or  his  dear 
and  generous  sister ;  instead  of  being,  as  thej  had  all 
so  fondly  anticipated,  the  comfort  and  support  of 
those  who  had  suffered  and  sacrificed  so  much  for  his 
sake  !  sufferings  and  sacrifices,  the  thought  of  wliich 
continuallj  lay  like  an  icy  hand  upon  his  heart ! 

"  Such  were  the  gloomy  reveries  to  which  he  was 
a  prey,  when  the  widowed  mother  of  an  amiable 
young  man  of  fortune,  who  had  countenanced  him  at 
college,  but  who  had  lately  died,  sent  him  her  de- 
parted son's  complete  wardrobe,  accompanied  by  a 
letter  so  dehcate  and  so  gratifymg  to  all  his  feehngs, 
that  the  gift,  so  unexpected  and  so  ample,  melted, 
soothed,  and  refreshed  his  poor  young  withering  heart 
hke  balm.  Soon  after  this,  a  member  of  the  presbyte- 
ry asked  him  to  preach  in  his  church  on  an  approach- 
ing week-day,  —  a  request  received  with  a  mixture  of 
pleasure  and  dread,  which  agitated  his  enfeebled 
frame  to  the  most  violent  degree.  The  day  came ; 
still  this  diseased  agitation  continued.  His  whole 
family  accompanied  him  to  church.  He  expected,  he 
wished  this  ;  yet  it  gave  him  pain,  and  added  to  his 
terror  —  he  could  not,  even  to  himself,  tell  why.  In 
a  turmoil  of  emotion,  he  ascended  the  pulpit,  and  his 
reading  of  the  first  psalm  was  nearly  inaudible.  He 
inwardly  lifted  his  heart  to  God,  imploring,  strug- 
gling, and  hoping  to  obtain  composure  whilst  it  was 
sung  :  and  when  it  ended,  he  rose  to  pray  with  some- 
what less  agitation.  Still  his  ears  rang,  and  green 
6 


74  FEIENDSHIP'S    GIFT. 

and  blue  clouds  swam  before  his  eyes  —  his  luminous 
dark  eves,  which,  with  intensity  of  feeling,  he  turned 
upwards,  and  clasped  his  hands  in  the  attitude  of 
adoration.  During  that  moment  of  silent  prayer, 
many  present  thought  they  had  never  seen  a  more 
beautiful  or  interesting  youth.  At  that  instant  the 
congregation  Avas  startled  by  the  loud  crash  of  a 
broken  window ;  and  exactly  as  poor  John  Phihps 
had  opened  his  hps  in  a  first  effort  to  speak,  a  ball, 
flung  by  some  unlucky  boy,  struck  him  on  the  face. 
It  was  all  over.  He  fell  back  in  the  pulpit,  and  his 
miserable  mother  shrieked  and  fainted  at  the  sight. 
The  worthies  and  most  influential  of  those  present 
crowded  round  him  with  tenderness  and  sympathy, 
but  their  kindest  encouragements  were  all  miavailing. 
They  vauily  urged  him  to  proceed  with  the  service  ; 
it  was  even  doubtful  if  he  heard  them.  The  silver 
cord  was  broken  —  the  s^toidid  intellect  shattered  — 
and  he  fled  homewards,  followed  by  his  enthusiastic 
and  almost  delirious  sister  —  both,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  feelings  which  those  who  have  never  been  so 
circumstanced  are  unfit  to  imagine.  Oh,  how  unfit, 
then,  are  they  to  judge  ! 

"  Ilis  poor  parents  saw  with  dismay  the  wanderings 
of  his  noble  mind,  and  did  their  best  to  soothe  and 
reconcile  him  to  his  situation  and  to  make  him  think 
lightly  of  the  accident  which  had  occurred.  "Whether 
they  followed  the  best  method  cannot  be  known. 
Sometimes  the   most   wholesome   management    onlj 


THE    DIVINITY    STUDENT.  75 

feeds  the  disease ;  arid,  in  his  case,  every  accident, 
every  chance  occurrence  increased  the  evil ;  and,  in 
a  few  months,  he  was  a  hopeless,  wanderuig  madman ! 
^'  Such,  my  good  friends,"  said  Simon,  after  a  Uttle 
pause,  and  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  —  "  such  was 
John  Philips,  the  most  dear,  and  valued,  and  admired 
friend  that  ever  Simon  Frazer  possessed." 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE. 


ANONYMOUS. 

Of  song  so  sweet  and  flight  so  free, 

Gayest  of  birds,  I  wot  are  we ; 

Nor  cold,  nor  frost,  nor  snow  we  know, 

Nor  wintry  blasts  e'er  on  us  blow\ 

For  joyous  birds  of  passage  are  we, 
And  summer  is  with  us  where'er  we  be. 

We  ever  sport  in  purest  skies. 

And  bright  things  ever  greet  our  eyes; 

We  take  no  scorn  of  ricii  or  poor. 

In  every  land  of  welcome  sure. 

For  joyous  birds  of  passage  are  we. 
And  summer  is  with  us  where'er  we  be. 

On  earth,  on  ocean,  and  on  shore. 

Fresh  beauties  rise  as  we  pass  o'er; 

The  lowly  lake,  and  mountain  high, 

Still  l)righten  as  we  onward  fly. 

For  joyous  birds  of  passage  are  we, 
And  summer  is  with  us  where'er  we  be. 


BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

We  mourn  not  brood  behind  us  left, 

Nor  fear  to  be  of  freedom  reft ; 

No  dread  of  ill  gives  us  annoy, 

Oh  !  none  would  harm  such  things  of  joy. 
For  joyous  birds  of  passage  are  we, 
And  summer  is  with  us  where'er  we  be. 

When  death's  soft  hand  doth  on  us  fall, 
(For  death  will  touch  the  hearts  of  all,) 
On  perfumed  banks  we  fall  asleep, 
While  over  us  sweet  flowerets  weep. 
For  joyous  birds  of  passage  are  we. 
And  summer  is  with  us  where'er  we  be. 


THE   VOYAGE   OF   LIFE. 


BY    G.    P.    R.    JAMES. 


I  WISH  I  could  as  merry  be. 

As  when  I  set  out  this  world  to  see, 

Like  a  boat  filled  with  good  couipaiiie, 

On  some  gay  voyage  sent. 
There  youth  spread  Ibrth  the  broad  white  sail, 
Sure  of  fair  weather  and  full  gale, 
Confiding  life  would  never  fail. 

Nor  time  be  ever  spent. 

And  Fancy  whistled  for  the  wind, 
And  if  e'er  Memory  looked  behind, 
'T  was  but  some  friendly  si^ht  to  fiud, 

And  gladsome  wave  her  hand. 
And  Hope  kept  whispering  in  Youth's  ear, 
To  spread  more  sail  and  never  fear. 
For  the  same  sky  would  still  be  clear, 

Until  they  reached  the  land. 

Health,  too,  and  Strength  tugged  at  the  oar, 
Mirth  mocked  the  passing  billow's  roar, 
And  Joy  with  goblet  running  o"er, 

Drank  draughts  of  deep  delight ; 
And  Judgment  was  a  child  as  yet. 
And,  lack-a-day  !  was  all  unfit 

To  guiile  the  boat  aright : — 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    LIFE.  79 

Bubbles  did  lialfl)er  thoughts  employ, 
Ho()e,  she  believed  —  she  played  with  Joy, 
And  Fancy  bribed  her  with  a  toy, 

To  steer  which  way  he  chose  — 
But  still  they  were  a  merry  crew, 
And  laughed  at  dangers  as  untrue, 
Till  the  dim  sky  tempestuous  grew, 

And  sobbing  south  winds  rose. 

Then  Prudence  told  them  all  she  feared ; 
And  Youth  awhile  his  messmates  cheered, 
Until  at  length  he  disappeared, 

Though  none  knew  how  he  went. 
Joy  hung  her  head,  and  Mirth  grew  dull. 
Health  faltered,  Strength  refused  to  pull ; 
And  Memory,  with  her  soft  eyes  full, 

Backward  her  glance  still^bent  — 

To  where,  upon  the  distant  sea. 
Bursting  the  storm's  dark  cano])y, 
Light  from  a  sun  none  more  could  see 

Still  touched  the  whirling  wave. 
And  though  Hope,  gazing  from  the  bow, 
Turns  oft — she  sees  the  sJiore  —  to  vow, 
Judgment  grown  older,  now  I  trow. 

Is  silent,  stern,  and  grave. 

And  though  she  steers  with  better  skill, 
And  makes  her  fellows  do  her  will, 
Fear  says  the  storm  is  rising  still, 

And  day  is  almost  spent. 
O  !  that  I  could  as  merry  be. 
As  when  I  set  out  this  world  to  see, 
Like  a  boat  filled  with  good  companie. 

On  some  gay  voyage  sent. 


A  FAREWELL. 


BY    ISMAEL    riTZADAM. 


Fare  thee  well,  land  of  my  birth, 
That  spot  the  most  sacred  on  earth!  — 
At  last  I  have  broken  the  spell 
That  bound  my  heart  to  thee, —  farewell! 

Away  idle  sorrows,  that  wet 
My  cheek  with  unbidden  regret!  — 
I  leave  no  fond  sympathy  here 
That  asks,  at  my  parting,  one  tear. 

With  a  love  that  scarce  death  could  remove, 
Have  I  clung  to  thee,  land  of  my  love! 
Yet  found  but  such  fostering  and  rest 
As  tlie  babe  at  its  dead  mother's  breast. 

Lift  the  sail— The  lone  spirit  that  braves 
The  loud  going  forth  of  the  waves 
Wherever  they  cast  him,  will  find 
A  country,  and  bosoms,  more  kind. 

Lift  the  sail  —  all  remembrances  sleep 
In  the  rush  and  the  loar  of  the  deep. 
As  its  ti<lc  blots  the  lines  which  the  hand 
Of  childhood  had  etched  on  the  sand. 


-A* 


^^y^^T^^au-tr/ '// 


A    FAREWELL.  81 

Denied  to  my  chance-kindled  fire 
The  wreath  that  belongs  to  the  lyre, 
Yet  my  good  sword  the  battle  shall  join, 
And  cjjivalry's  garland  be  mine. 

Or  victory,  torn  from  the  brow, 
Of  the  Paynim,  shall  hallow  my  vow, — 
Or  fallen  in  the  strife  of  the  brave. 
Young  Glory  shall  beam  on  my  grave ! 

Fare  thee  well,  land  of  my  birth. 
The  one  spot  most  sacred  of  earth!  — 
At  last  I  have  burst  through  the  spell 
That  bound  my  heart  to  thee!  —  Farewell! 


A  COUNTRY  STORY. 


BY    JOHN    CAKVER. 


Good  sir,  reject  it  not,  althoiigli  it  bring 
Appearances  of  some  fantastic  thing. 
At  first  unf(jldinsr  I' — VVlTHER. 


It  was  on  a  bitter  cold  evening  in  the  month  of  De- 
cember, that  a  nmnber  of  neighbors  had  called  in  to 
say  good-by  to  my  cousin  John,  who  was  to  start  the 
next  morning  on  a  trip  down  the  country,  to  dispose 
of  some  of  the  products  of  the  farm.  An  hour  or  two 
had  passed  off  very  pleasantly  over  a  mug  of  flip  ;  the 
more  distant  visiters  had  dropped  away  as  the  evening 
wore  on  ;  the  lumber-box  had  been  loaded  with  firkuis 
of  butter,  and  boxes  of  cheese,  and  flitches  of  bacon, 
and  all  those  innumerable  knick-knacks  which  the 
farmer's  wife  sends  to  the  market-town  ;  the  commis- 
sions for  gowns  and  ribands,  patterns  and  fashions, 
had  been  repeatedly  given  ;  and  the  remaining  visiters 
were  moving  their  chairs,  as  if  half  reluctant  to  quit 
the   bright  fireside,  despite  of  the  sleepy  nods  and 


A    COUNTRY    STORY.  83 

yawns  of  my  good  grandmother  ;  when  my  uncle 
roared  out  with  his  stentorian  voice,  "  Stop  neighbors, 
don't  go  yet !  we'll  have  another  mug  of  flip,  and 
Bowgun  shall  tell  us  a  story." 

It  required  but  little  urging  to  induce  a  general 
acquiescence  in  the  proposal,  for  my  uncle's  flip  and 
Captain  Bowgun' s  stories  were  the  toast  of  the  whole 
neighborhood.  Even  my  pretty  cousin  Jane,  whose 
eyes  had  been  closed  for  a  long  time,  brightened  up  in 
the  expectation  of  a  tale,  and  every  one's  attention  was 
directed  to  the  Captain  for  the  promised  enjoyment. 

"  Well,  boys,  and  what  is  it  I'm  to  give  you  ?"  said 
Bowgun,  in  a  tone  something  hke  that  with  which 
Matthews  used  to  debut  in  his  '  What's  the  news  at 
Natchitoches  V  and  whom  our  old  story-teller  resem- 
bled in  more  points  than  one,  —  "  Well,  hojs,  and 
what  is  it  I'm  to  give  you  ?  Shall  it  be  a  love  story, 
or  a  witch  story,  or  a  ghost  story,  or" 

"  Oh,  a  love  story,  by  all  means,"  exclaimed  my  fair 
cousin,  whose  eyes  were  brightening  like  diamonds  at 
the  thought,  and  turned  full  upon  the  old  captain  ;  "let 
it  be  a  love  story,  and  a  good  ending,  won't  you,  Cap- 
tain?" 

"  Whist,  Jenny,"  said  my  uncle,  "  what  has  such  a 
child  as  you  to  do  with  love  stories  ?  Leave  Bowgun 
to  his  own  fancy,  and  I'll  be  bound  he'll  tell  us  some- 
thing pleasant." 

"Doubtful  about  that!"  answered  the  Captain; 
"  such  cold  nights  as  this,  with  three  feet  of  snow  in 


®4  friendship's  gift. 

the  old  sap  lot,  and  the  prospect  of  a  tramp  through 
it,  with  the  wind  dancing  rigadoons  all  the  way,  is  n't 
just  the  thing  to  wake  a  man's  ideas  up  to  a  good 
story.  An}^  how,  since  your  father  asks  it,  I'll  tell 
you  one  befitting  the  night,  which  I  heard  long  ago, 
when  I  was  a  child;  it's  about  the  oldhaimted  ground, 
over  in  Campton,  where  you  know  neither  sheep,  nor 
cattle,  nor  horses,  ever  live  or  thrive  ;  and  it  was  once, 
—  but  that's  long  ago, —  the  best  piece  of  land  in  the 
country ;  and  every  traveller  noticed  how  rich  the 
farms  were  over  the  river." 

"  Stop,  Captain  !"  said  my  uncle,  interrupting  him ; 
"  it's  dry  work,  talking, — •  taste  a  drop  of  this,  just  to 
wet  your  whistle  ;"  and  filling  a  pmt  mug  with  the 
rich,  foaming  beverage,  he  handed  it  to  the  story  teller, 
with  ''  Much  good  may  it  do  you,  neighbor ;  bless 
your  kmd  soul !" 

The  old  man  took  the  mug  from  my  uncle's  hand, 
and  sipping  once  or  twice  from  the  cream-like  surface 
of  the  hot  liquid,  w^hich,  unfortunately,  he  loved  but 
too  well,  he  smacked  his  lips  and  replied,  "  Thank  you. 
Square  ;  that  goes  to  the  right  place  ;  now  for  the 
story." 

"  I've  told  you,"  continued  he,  "  that  it's  about  the 
Campton  marshes,  where,  you  know,  the  cattle,  and 
sheep,  and  horses,  of  the  best  farmer  in  old  Strafford, 
would  be  scarce  as  my  own  in  half  a  dozen  years. 
It's  been  tried  out  and  out  repeatedly  by  many  a  hard 
worker ;  as  any  one  may  know  from  the  large  barns 


A    COUNTRY    STORY.  85 

and  snug  houses,  for  many  a  mile,  all  unroofed  by  the 
winds  and  crumbling  to  ruins,  with  nobody  to  take  care 
of  them,  and  not  a  soul  to  live  there,  except  it  may 
be  some  old  wrinkled  crone,  who  has  more  to  do  with 
Old  Nick  than  with  anything  in  this  w^orld.  And  yet 
the  grass  grows  on  the  meadows  as  I  never  saw  it 
anywhere  else,  except  in  old  Oxbow,  up  in  Coos  ;  and 
the  land  runs  away  so  smooth  and  so  green,  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  see,  that  it  would  do  one's  heart  good 
to  ride  through  it,  if  you  didn't  know  that  it  was  as 
deceitful  as  it  is  fair.  Some  people  say,  it's  the  fog 
that  rises  every  morning,  and  makes  it  unhealthy  ; 
and  others,  that  the  water  is  bad,  and  breeds  diseases 
in  the  stock  who  drink  it ;  but,  to  my  mind,  it's  more 
the  curse  of  Satan  on  what  the  Lord  made  good,  than 
anything  else,  as  the  story  I  am  going  to  tell  you  will 
show. 

"  There  hved  once  upon  the  Bearcamp  one  William 
Montgomery,  or,  as  he  was  called,  Bill  Mink,  in  con- 
sideration of  his  being  the  blackest  white  man  any- 
where about.  It's  a  long  time  ago,  before  old  Captain 
Lovewell  had  his  battle  at  Fryeburgh  with  Powell  and 
the  Indians,  Avhen  there  was  not  a  road  from  the 
Winnepissaukee  to  old  Hampton,  nor  more  than  fifty 
settlers  from  Red  Hill  up  to  Canada.  This  Mink  was 
the  wonder  of  the  country  all  about  for  strength,  for 
he'd  think  nothing  of  felling  an  acre  of  first  growth 
between  sun  and  sun,  and  trimming  it  to  boot ;  and 
he  beat  Samson  in  throwin<2;  a  rock,  or  swiuirinf];  an 


86  friendship's  gift. 

anvil  -with  his  teeth,  or  taking  a  barrel  of  cider  as 
you  would  a  two-gallon  wallet  up  at  anus'  length,  and 
drinking  from  the  bung-hole.  But  though  he  was  the 
leader  in  all  the  country  frolickings,  he  was  as  mild- 
tempered  and  peaceable  a  fellow  as  lived  in  the  world, 
and  would  not  have  hurt  a  fly.  For  this  reason  many 
folks,  who  did  not  know  Bill,  fancied  he  was  a  coward  ; 
and  some  men  found,  to  their  cost,  that,  though  he 
was  good-natured  to  a  fault,  yet  he  was  not  to  be 
abused  out  of  reason.  Young  Sam  Hurchley ,  a  bully- 
ing, bragging  tailor's  apprentice,  in  the  heat  of  a  row 
which  they  all  got  into  at  a  country  fair,  threw  a  glass 
full  of  spirits  into  Mink's  face  and  eyes,  and  so  mad- 
dened him,  that  he  caught  him  by  the  collar  like  the 
grip  of  a  vice,  and  tossing  him  into  the  air  as  if  he 
had  been  a  real  puppy,  as  he  was,  and  catching  liim 
at  arms'  length  as  he  came  down,  so  frightened  the  poor 
breeches-mender,  that  he  never  looked  full  in  a  man's 
face  afterwards. 

"  Well,  it  happened  that  Bill  Mink  was  one  evening 
at  a  house-warming,  two  or  three  miles  from  home, 
where  there  was  no  lack  of  good  things  to  eat  and  to 
drink.  Bill  was  the  life  of  the  company ;  and  what 
with  singing  of  songs,  and  telling  of  stories,  eating  of 
turkeys  and  chickens,  and  roast  beef,  and  bacon,  and 
drinking  of  good  old  cider,  and  New  England  and  the 
best  of  Metheglin,  he  got  somewhat  irregular ;  not 
worse  than  the  others,  perhaps,  for  all  were  hearty- 
like  ;  and  as  they  came  home  the  woods  rang  with  the 


A    COUNTRY    STORY. 


87 


shouts  and  laughter  of  the  merry  blades.     It  was  a 
clear  cold  evening  m  December,  and  the  frost  sparkled 
in   the  moonlight,  like  diamonds  and  jewels.     Bill's 
path  lay  farther  on  than  the  others  were  to  go  ;  and 
as  they  turned  off,  one  after  another,  they  bade  him 
"  good  night  and  a  pleasant  walk  home."     Bill  did 
not  like  the  idea  of  a  two-mile  walk  through  the  woods 
and  nobody  with  him,  but  still  he  held  up  his  spirits — 
and  whisthng  to  keep  off  the  thoughts  of  spirits  and 
bogles  —  for  Bill  was  a  firm  believer  in  ghosts  and  all 
that  —  he  went  on  his  way.     The  path  lay  along  by 
the  side  of  a  hill  for  nearly  half  a  mile,  and  then  ran 
down  into   an  intervale  of  the  Bearcamp,  a  tract  of 
rich    soil  which  Bill  had  bought  of    the  proprietor, 
making  a  journey  all  the  way  to  Boston  on  purpose, 
and  wliere  he  meant  to  build  him  a  house  in  the  earli- 
est spring.     As  he  came  do^\^l  the  hill,  he  thought  he 
heard  a  sound  over  among  some  white  pine  that  he  had 
selected  for  framed  timber ;  and  listening  a  moment, 
he  made  sure  that  some   one  was  chopping  his  trees. 
Bill's  temper  was  up  in  a  minute  ;  so,  springing  into 
the  forest,  he  pretty  soon  came  upon  a  black  stout 
man,  with  a  shock  of  curly  black  hair,  who  was  most 
lustily  cutting  away  at  the  finest  tree  in  the  woods. 

'' '  Halloo,  there  !'  cried  Bill,  '  what  in  the  devil  are 
you  doing?' 

"  '  Chopping  trees !  '  answered  the  black  man, 
without  so  much  as  looking  up,  or  stopping  for  a 
minute. 


88  friendship's  gift. 

"  Bill  -was  confounded  at  the  black  man's  cool  im- 
pudence, and  hesitating  a  minute,  he  replied,  '  So  I 
see  ;  but  do  you  know  this  is  my  timber  V 

"  '  You  lie  !'  surlily  answered  the  black  man. 

^'  Bill's  temper  was  up  in  a  minute  :  for  though  you 
might  tease  him  all  day,  and  he  never  get  angry,  yet 
he  was  a  fellow  of  spirit,  and  would  take  the  lie  from 
no  man.  •  What's  that  you  say  ?'  asked  he  with  a 
stern  voice,  advancing  his  foot,  and  showing  a  pair  of 
huge  fists,  just  ready  to  strike.  '  What's  that  you  say, 
sir  V 

"  '  I  say  you  lie  !'  said  the  other,  never  once  look- 
ing up,  nor  taking  any  notice  of  Bill's  threatening 
attitude. 

*'  Take  that,  then  !'  said  Bill  Mink,  dealing  him  a 
blow  which  would  send  the  stoutest  to  the  earth,  h  \t 
which  had  no  more  effect  on  the  black  man  than  if  he 
had  been  made  of  iron. 

" '  Ila,  ha,  ha  !'  shouted  the  negro,  with  a  short 
fiendish  laugh  ;  '  so  you  dare  to  strike  me,  do  you  ? 
I'll  pay  you  for  this.  You  shall  ride  round  this  land 
you  call  yours,  my  good  fellow,  and  point  it  out  to  me, 
and  Til  drive  ;  '  and  cutting  down  a  stout  beech  sap- 
ling, he  commenced  peeling  the  bark  into  a  broom, 
such  as  old  Dinah  makes  to  sell  at  the  corner. 

^'  Bill  Mink  was  now  terribly  frightened,  and  knew 
not  what  to  do.  lie  could  not  run  away,  for  it  was  a 
long  mile  to  the  cabin,  and  he  was  sure  the  black  man 
would  overtake  him  before  he  got  half  way  there.    He 


A    COUNTRY    STORY. 


89 


could  not  conceal  himself  among  the  tall  trees ;  and 
as  for  opposing  a  man  who  cared  no  more  for  his  blows 
than  if  they  had  been  pops  of  parched  corn,  it  was 
hopeless  enough.  The  only  way  he  could  think  of, 
was  to  appease  the  black  fellow  with  an  apology  for 
striking  him,  quit  his  claim  to  the  land,  and  so  try  to 
come  off  on  good  terms.  Mustering  all  his  courage, 
then  —  for  he  trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf — Bill 
stammered  out,  '  I  say,  friend,  you  may  have  the 
timber,  only  forget  the  blow  I  gave  you,  and  so  quit 
even.' 

"  '  Ha !  backing  out,  are  you  ? '  returned  the  other, 
who  had  now  completed  the  broom  and  held  it  out  to 
Bill :  '  that  wont  go  !  Here,  mount  this  horse,  I  tell 
you,  and  ride  round  your  farm.' 

"  Bill  tried  to  object,  but  the  black  fellow's  eyes 
sparkled  like  fire,  and  he  was  forced  to  stride  the 
strange  horse.  No  sooner  had  he  mounted,  than  the 
broom  elevated  itself  above  the  surface  of  the  ground. 
and  started  off  over  the  intervale.  On  they  went, 
the  black  fellow  mounted  behind  him,  up  the  hills, 
over  the  river,  through  the  valleys,  harum-scarum-like. 
Bill  ^link  was  in  a  terrible  fright,  as  you  may  well 
behove,  for  the  courage  of  the  liquor  had  all  gone, 
and  he  didn't  think  his  life  worth  a  rush  peeling ;  so 
clino-ino;  with  one  hand  to  the  broom — which  was  none 
of  the  easiest  to  ride,  and  taking  off  his  hat  with  the 
other,  and  making  a  submission  to  the  black  fellow,  he 
begged  him  to  stop.  I'm  at  your  honor's  mercy  en- 
7* 


90  friendship's  gift. 

tirelj,  and  I  beg  Heaven's  pardon,  and  jours  likewise, 
sir ;  and  sure,  if  I  thought  that  it  was  on  account  of 


my  touching  you ' 

*' '  Touching  me  !'  roared  the  black  fellow  :  '  D'  ye 
call  that  blow  touching  me  —  or  is  it  game  you're 
making  ? ' 

^' '  Well  would  it  become  the  like  of  me,'  said  the 
blarneying  Bill,  '  to  make  game  of  a  gentleman  like 
yourself,  and  one  that  would  not  think  it  worth  his 
w^hile  to  hurt  or  harm  a  poor  devil  like  me,  who  got  a 
little  overtaken  with  drink  ;  —  curse  it !  for  it's  like  to 
be  the  ruin  of  me  at  last.  Oh,  Jenny,  it  is  little  you're 
dreaming  in  your  snug  bed,  what  an  end  I  have  come 
to !  and  my  poor  children —  ! '  and  at  that  Bill  blub- 
bered out,  Uke  a  great  schoolboy. 

''  '  Well,  Bill,  and  Avhat  bargain  will  you  make  with 
me,  if  I  let  you  off  free  ?'  says  the  black  man. 

"  '  Bargain,  sir  ? '  answered  Bill ;  '  any  bargain  in 
the  wide  world  this  blessed  night  that  you  may  ask 
of  me,  will  I  make  with  you.  Only  name  it,  and 
see  if  I  do  not  make  it  and  keep  it  to  your  heart's 
content ! ' 

^' '  Bill  Mink,  you're  the  very  man  for  me ! '  answered 
the  black  fellow ;  ^  and  I'll  make  you  the  richest  man 
in  the  country,  if  you  '11  only  promise  me  two  or  three 
things,  and  no  harm  to  come  to  you  either ! '  " 

"  But  he  lied,  didn't  he  ?  "  interrupted  my  Uncle, 
who  was  swallowing  down  the  story  word  for  word  a»s 
fast  as  the  old  man  could  tell  it. 


A    COUNTRY    STORY. 


&1 


^'  Lied  !  to  be  sure  he  did  !  "  answered  Bowgum ; 
"  It 's  the  Scripture  that  calls  him  a  liar  from  the  first, 
and  the  father  of  liars.  'Twas  Bill  Mink's  soid  that 
he  wanted  —  the  cheat  that  he  is  —  as  you  shall  hear 
in  a  minute  ;  "  and  taking  the  last  drink  from  the 
mug,  he  resumed  his  story. 

"Let  me  see  —  whereabouts  was  I?  Oh,  I  re- 
member :  The  devil  says  he " 

"  Then  the  black  man  was  the  devil  after  all,  was 
he  ?  "  said  my  grandmother. 

"  To  be  sure  he  Avas,"  replied  Bowgum  ;  "  but  don't 
interrupt  me.  'So  you  '11  promise,'  said  the  devil, 
to  do  what  I  tell  you  ? ' 

"  '  I  will,'  said  Bill. 

"  '  Well,  then,  you  shall  have  more  shining  dollars 
than  there  is  in  every  farmer's  chest  between  here  and 
Dover.' 

"  '  When  ?  '  says  Bill ;  for  the  mention  of  the  dol- 
lars, and  he  so  poor  a  man,  had  quickened  his  appetite 
for  the  bargain.     '  When  ? '  says  he. 

"  '  This  very  night ; '  answered  the  black  man, 
'  only  sign  this  paper  to  do  what  I  say ! ' 

"  '  And  what  is  to  be  done  ? '  asked  Bill  Mink. 

"  '  Advertise  this  land  on  the  Bearcamp  for  sale  ! ' 
said  the  black  man. 

"  '  Well  ?'  answered  Bill  Mink. 

"  '  Go  to  Boston  ;  publish  it  in  the  papers  ;  cut  it  up 
into  building  lots  ;  draw  it  out  on  a  map  ;  lay  roads  ; 
plan  streets  ;  cry  up  the  water  privileges  ;  erect  man- 


92  friendship's  gift. 

uafactories  ;  build  churches ;  open  stores  ;  put  up 
houses' 

"  '  What,  all  on  paper  ?'  inquired  Bill  Mink,  who 
was  quite  out  of  breath,  at  the  rapidity  of  the  di- 
rections. 

"  '  To  be  sure  !'  answered  the  black  man. 

"  '  Open  a  land  office  in  Boston ;  employ  a  clerk  ; 
send  circulars  over  the  city ;  cover  your  table  with 
plans  and  drafts  ;  fill  your  desks  with  deeds ;  work 
hard  ;  think  much  ;  talk  largely  ;  —  in  short,  become 
a  flourishing  land  speculator.' 

"  '  Ay,  ay,'  said  Bill  Mink. 

"  '  Encourage  buyers,  Avith  fair  promises  and  long 
credits  ;  work  up  an  excitement ;  identify  it  with  re- 
ligion ;  seduce  the  parson ;  coax  the  deacons  ;  ' 

"  '  Egad,  I  will,'  said  Bill  Mink. 

"  '  In  short,  build  up  a  great  city  where  a  tree 
is  not  cut,  nor  a  swamp  drained  ;  stir  up  emigration  ; 
enhst  capitalists  ;  promise  dividends  ;  cheat  the 
widows  ;  rob  the  heirs ;  lure  the  merchants  to  over- 
trade ;' 


U   i 


'  I'll  lure  them  to  the  devil,'  said  Wilham. 
You  are  the  very  man  for  me,'  exclaimed  the 
black  fellow  ;  '  now  sign  the  paper.' 

''  By  tliis  time  Bill  was  dismounted  from  his 
awkward  steed  ;  so  sitting  down  on  a  half-decayed  log, 
he  signed  the  pai)er,  and  started  for  home. 

"  Before  spring  there  was  great  excitement  in  the 
good  city  of  Boston,   about   the   wild  lands  in  New 


A    COUNTRY    STORY. 


93 


Hampsliire.  Governor  Wentworth  had  recently  been 
appointed  to  preside  over  the  province,  and  was  mak- 
ing preparations  to  build  him  a  splendid  mansion,  far 
m  from  the  sea-board.  Sellers  were  about  in  every 
quarter.  The  land  was  said  to  be  the  most  fertile  of 
any  in  New  England,  and  nothing  was  talked  about 
save  city  lots  and  splendid  sites,  pine  timber  and 
intervales,  mill  pri\dleges  and  new  roads.  Great  for- 
tunes were  made  in  a  day  ;  and  he  who  yesterday 
wrought  laboriously  for  the  mere  sustenance  of  life, 
to-day  stood  foremost  as  the  wealthiest  man  on  'change. 
To  be  sure,  some  of  the  grave  old  puritans,  who  had 
got  rich  by  selling  pins  and  needles,  shook  their  heads, 
and  doubted  to  what  all  this  would  grow  ;  but  tliis 
was  to  be  expected  —  they  were  behind  the  age,  and 
every  body  pronounced  them  to  be  obstinate  unbe- 
lievers. 

"  Among  the  great  men  whom  this  ebullition  of  the 
times  threw  prominently  upon  the  surface,  was  one 
Mr.  Montgomery,  who  had  a  land  office  in  Cornhill. 
Nobody  knew  who  he  was,  or  whence  he  came,  and 
nobody  cared.  It  was  enough  that  he  lived  in  princely 
style,  owned  houses  on  Beacon  Hill,  gave  costly 
dinners,  set  up  a  superb  livery,  and  was  the  most 
civil,  complaisant,  and  urbane  man  in  the  whole  city 
of  Boston.  His  office  was  crowded  from  morning 
to  night  with  eager  buyers  of  new  lands  in  New 
Hampshire,  and  his  opinions  were  quoted  as  absolut.e 
in  all  matters  relating  to  the   value  of  real  estate  on 


94  friendship's  gift. 

the  frontiers.  Such  bargams  as  he  had  sold  were 
never  before  known,  and  the  city  he  had  laid  out  on 
the  Bearcamp  river,  it  was  believed,  would  rival  Bos- 
ton in  less  than  fifty  years.  Was  any  one  desirous  of 
gro\N-ing  suddenly  rich,  let  him  go  to  No.  17,  Corn- 
hill;  was  a  merchant  in  want  of  investments,  Mr. 
Montgomery  would  sell  him  such  stocks  as  even  Lon- 
don could  not  boast ;  were  a  family  of  rich  heirs  de- 
sirous of  secure  dividends,  the  land  office  was  the  never- 
failing  resort ;  —  in  short,  to  every  one  Mr.  ^lontgom- 
ery  seemed  the  moving  spirit  of  the  time.  The  golden 
age  had  again  come  to  visit  the  world,  and  "William 
Montgomery,  Esquire,  was  the  Midas  who  had 
brought  it. 

"  The  summer  passed  away  —  autumn  came  and 
went  —  chill  winter  set  in  —  and  still  there  was  no 
abatement  of  the  great  bargains  in  New  Hampsliire 
lands.  The  coming  of  spring  was  looked  forward  to 
with  great  interest,  for  then  the  first  colony  was  to 
move  northward,  to  the  far-famed  Bearcamp.  Houses 
were  framed — bricks  were  imported — mechanics  were 
hired  —  stores  were  provided  —  farming  tools  were 
bought  up  —  furniture  was  packed,  and  every  thing 
made  in  readiness  to  start  by  the  earliest  spring.  The 
El  Dorado  of  the  western  continent  had  in  very  deed 
at  last  a})peared  in  sight. 

"In  tlie  midst  of  all  these  expectations,  when  the 
whole  city  rang  with  the  noise  of  busy  preparation, 
one  morning  No.  17  was  closed.  A  crowd  was 
gathered  about  the  door  at  the  usual  tmie  of  opening, 


A   COUNTRY    STORY.  95 

but  no  clerk  appeared.  An  hour  passed  by  —  the 
crowd  had  mcreased  far  up  and  down  the  street,  and 
great  hnpatience  began  to  be  manifest,  Avhen  it  was 
whispered  by  somebody,  that  jMr.  Montgomery  had 
been  absent  from  home  all  night.  A  messenger  was 
despatched  to  ascertain  the  truth  of  the  report ;  but 
before  he  could  return,  a  person  came  running  up  the 
street,  announcing  that  Mr.  Montgomery  was  probably 
drowned,  his  hat  and  cane  having  been  found  floating 
on  the  water,  near  Long  AYharf.  The  consternation 
was  great :  —  a  general  meeting  of  the  citizens  was 
called  together  —  boats  with  grappling  irons  were 
ordered  to  drag  the  bay  :  —  but  nothing  was  ever  found 
of  the  body,  and  to  this  day  it  remains  in  doubt  what 
was  the  fate  of  the  land  speculator." 

"  Andwhat  became  of  his  property,'  asked  my  uncle. 

"  Oh,  the  town  appointed  trustees  to  settle  that, 
but  they  did  not  find  enough  to  pay  a  penny  on  a 
pound.  His  houses  were  mortgaged,  his  chests  were 
empty,  his  horses  and  carriages  had  disappeared,  and 
his  bonds  and  mortgages  were  all  blank  paper,  hand- 
somely labeled  and  sealled  ;  his  " 

"  But  the  old  intervale  in  Campton  ?  who  owned 
that?" 

"  That  was  cleared  and  settled,  after  a  time,  by 
some  of  the  buyers,  but  the  owners  never  flourished  ; 
and  to  this  day  there  is  not  a  thriving  farm  on  the 
Bearcamp." 

'^No  wonder!'*  said  my  grandmother,  "/or  the 
devil  sold  itJ^ 


THE   HEBREW'S   PRAYER. 


BY    T,    K.    HERVEY. 

A  Hebrew  knelt,  in  the  dying  light, — 

His  eye  was  dim  and  cold, 

The  hairs  on  his  brow  were  silver-white. 

And  his  blood  was  thin  and  old! 

He  lifted  his  look  to  his  latest  sun, — 

For,  he  knew  that  his  pilgrimage  was  done!- 

And  as  he  saw  God's  shadow  there,* 

His  spirit  poured  itself  in  prayer! 

'I  come  unto  death's  second-birth, 
Beneath  a  stranger-air, 
A  pilgrim  on  a  dull,  cold  earth, 
As  all  my  fathers  were ! 
And  men  have  stamped  me  with  a  curse, — 
I  feel  it  is  not  Thine, 
Thy  mercy  —  like  yon  sun  —  was  made 
On  me  —  as  them  —  to  shine  ; 
And,  therefore,  dare  I  lit\  mine  eye. 
Through  that,  to  Thee, —  before  I  die  I 


•  Platx)  calls  Truth  the  body  of  God,  and  Light  his  shadow !  —  perhaps  lh« 
•ubliitjest  of  all  conceptiot^s,  having  a  merelj  mortal  breast  for  their  birth 
place. 


THE  Hebrew's  prayer.  97 

"  In  this  great  temple,  built  by  Thee, 
Whose  altars  are  divine, 
Beneath  yon  lamp,  that,  carelessly, 
Lights  up  Thine  own  true  shrine, 
Oh !  take  my  latest  sacrifice, — 
Look  down,  and  make  this  sod 
Holy  as  that  where  long  ago, 
The  Hebrew  met  his  God  ! 

"  I  have  not  caused  the  widow's  tears, 
Nor  dimmed  the  orphan's  eye, 
I  have  not  stained  the  virgin's  years, 
Nor  mocked  the  mourner's  cry  ; 
The  songs  of  Zion,  in  mine  ear. 
Have,  ever,  been  most  sweet. 
And,  always,  when  I  felt  Thee  near, 
My  '  shoes '  were  '  oflT  my  feet ' ! 

"I  have  known  Thee,  in  the  whirl- wind, 
I  have  known  Thee,  on  the  hill, 
I  have  loved  Thee,  in  the  voice  of  birds, 
Or  the  music  of  the  rill !  — 
I  dreamt  Thee,  in  the  shadow, 
I  saw  Thee,  in  the  light, 
I  heard  Thee,  in  the  thunder-peal. 
And  worshipped,  in  the  night ! 
All  beauty,  while  it  spoke  of  Thee, 
Still  made  my  soul  rejoice. 
And  my  spirit  bowed  within  itself, 
To  hear  Thy  '  still-small  voice ' !  — 
1  have  not  felt  myself  a  thing 
Far  from  Thy  presence  driven  ; 
By  flaming  sword  or  waving  wing. 
Shut  out  from  Thee  and  heaven ! 


98  friendship's  gift. 

"Must  I  the  whirlwind  reap,  because 
My  fathers  sowed  the  storm, 
Or  shrink  —  because  anotlier  sinned,  — 
Beneath  Thy  red  right  arm  ? 
Oh!  much  of  this  we  dimly  scan, 
And  much  is  all  unknown, — 
But  I  will  not  take  my  curse  from  mun, 
I  turn  to  Thee,  alone ! 
Oh  !  bid  my  fainting  spirit  live. 
And  what  is  dark  reveal, 
And  what  is  evil,  oh  !  forgive. 
And  what  is  broken  heal. 
And  cleanse  my  nature,  from  above, 
In  the  deep  Jordan  of  Thy  love  ! 

"  I  know  not  if  the  Christian's  heaven 
Shall  be  the  same  as  mine, 
I  only  ask  to  be  forgiven, 
And  taken  home  to  Thine  ! 
I  weary  on  a  far,  dim  strand, 
Whose  mansions  are  as  tombs, 
And  long  to  find  the  father-land. 
Where  there  are  many  homes !  — 
Oh!  grant,  of  all  yon  starry  thrones, 
Some  dim  and  distant  star, 
Where  Judah's  lost  and  scattered  sons 
May  love  Thee,  from  afar ! 
When  all  earth's  myriad  harps  shall  meet, 
In  choral  praise  and  prayer, 
Shall  Zion's  harp  —  of  old,  so  sweet, — 
Alone  be  wanting,  there  ? 
Yet  place  me  in  Thy  lowest  seat. 
Though  I  —  as  now — be,  there, 
The  Christian's  scorn,  the  Christian's  jest : 
But  let  me  see  and  hear, 
From  some  dim  mansion  ia  the  sky, 
The  bright  ones,  and  their  melody !  " 


THE  ANNIVERSARY. 


BY   ALARIC    A.    WATTS. 


'  The  world  was  all  before  us,  where  to  choose 
Our  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  our  guide.'' 


Milton. 


Twenty  chequered  years  have  passed, — 
Summer  suns  and  wintry  weather, — 

Since,  our  lot  m  concert  cast, 

Fh'st  we  "  climbed  the  hill "  together. 

And  the  world  before  us  lay 

In  its  brightest  colors  drest, 
As  we  took  our  joyous  way 

To  select  our  jjlace  of  rest. 

Fortune's  smiles  we  could  not  boast ; 

Fame  —  we  had  not  dream't  of  Fame! 
Friendship,  e'n  when  needed  most, 

We  had  only  known  —  by  name. 

So,  despising  trappings  rich, 

We  decked  our  bower  with  humbler  things, 
And  in  friendship's  empty  niche 

Love  installed  —  without  his  wings! 


100  friendship's  gift. 

There,  tliough  twenty  years  have  fled, 
Chequered  o'er  by  good  and  ill, 

He  lifts  aloft  his  beaming  head, 
The  same,  young,  household  still ! 


t(:^y?2.e^  r^W^tZ?//^ 


THE    HEROINE    MARTYR   OF   MONTEREY. 


BY    REV.    J.    G.    LYONS. 


While  the  American  forces  under  General  Taylor  stormed  Monterey,  a  Mex- 
ican woman  was  seen  going  about  among  the  wounded  of  both  armies,  binding 
up  their  wounds,  and  supplying  them  with  food  and  water.  While  thus  em- 
ployed, she  fell.  She  was  next  day  buried  by  the  Americans,  amid  an  inces.sant 
discharge  of  shot  from  the  Mexican  batteries. 

The  strife  was  stern  at  Monterey, 

Wlien  those  high  towers  were  lost  and  won. 
And  pealing  through  that  mortal  fray, 

Flashed  the  strong  battery's  vengeful  gun; 
Yet  heedless  of  its  deadly  rain, 

She  stood  in  toil  and  danger,  first 
To  bind  the  bleeding  soldier's  vein, 

And  slake  the  dying  soldier's  thh'st. 

She  found  a  pale  and  stricken  foe, 

Sinking  in  nature's  last  ecli|)se, 
And,  on  the  red  earth  kneeling  low, 

She  wet  his  parched  and  fevered  lips; 
When,  thick  as  winter's  driving  sleet, 

The  booming  shot,  and  flaming  shell, 
Swept  with  wild  rage  that  gory  street, 

And  she,  the  good  and  gentle,  fell. 

8* 


102  friendship's  gift. 

They  laid  her  in  a  narrow  bed, 

The  foeman  of  her  land  and  race; 
And  righs  were  breathed,  and  tears  were  shed, 

Above  her  lowly  resting  place  ;  — 
Ay  !  glory's  crimson  worshippers 

Wept  over  her  untimely  fall. 
For  deeds  of  mercy,  such  as  hers, 

Subdue  the  hearts  and  eyes  of  all. 

To  sound  her  worth  were  guilt  and  shame, 

In  us  who  love  but  gold  and  ease ;  — 
They  heed  alike  our  praise  or  blame, 

Who  live  and  die  in  works  like  these. 
Far  greater  than  the  wise  or  brave. 

Far  happier  than  tlie  fair  and  gay. 
Was  she,  who  found  a  martyr's  grave 

On  that  red  field  of  Monterey. 


THE  DISCLAIMER. 


A   TALE    OF    ROME. 

"Know  that  the  human  being's  thoughts  and  deeds 
Are  not  like  ocean  billows  lightly  moved ; 
The  inner  world  his  microcosmus  is  — 
The  deep  shaft  out  of  which  they  spring  eternally." 

I  KNOW  of  few  situations  more  favorable  to  the 
indulgence  of  a  habit  —  doubtless  of  questionable 
utility  in  these  utilitarian  days,  although  sanctioned 
by  the  example  of  no  less  a  personage  than  Geoffrey 
Crayon  —  the  habit  of  day-dreaming,  than  that  of  a 
traveller  when  cosily  ensconced  within  the  narrow 
limits  of  an  ItaUan  vettura.  If  the  coach  is  old,  the 
steeds  superannuated,  and  the  vetturino  utterly  devoid 
of  Jehu  ambition,  as  is  ordinarily  the  case  —  if  the 
road  abound  in  long,  winding  declivities  —  if  the 
passengers  be  taciturn,  and  the  quiet,  sunny  atmos- 
phere of  early  autumn  prevail,  such  a  combination  of 
circumstances  will  produce  upon  his  mental  mood 
somewhat  the  effect  of  lateral  smibeams  shining 
through  richly-colored  wuidows,  upon  the  marble  floor 


104  rRIENDSHIP's    GIFT. 

of  a  cathedral.  The  images  of  Memory  and  Hope 
will  appear  magnified,  and  lit  up  into  soothing  beauty, 
as  revealed  by  the  mellow  light  of  musing.  At  least, 
such  was  my  experience  during  the  afternoon  of  a 
long  day,  the  evening  of  which  we  designed  to  pass 
under  the  shelter  of  the  Seven  Hills,  whence  the 
thunders  of  ancient  eloquence  and  war  were  so  lav- 
ishly fulminated.  Aroused  by  the  exclamation  of  a 
Tuscan  friar,  my  next  neighbor,  who  had  mistaken  a 
semicircular  cloud  floating  in  the  far  horizon,  for  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter's,  I  began  to  note  the  state  of 
things  around.  Our  humble  locomotive  was  creeping 
up  a  hill,  formidable  only  from  its  length,  and  the 
customary  muiTiiur  of  paupers  at  the  windows  was 
blending  Avith  the  rumbling  of  the  carriage  and  the 
monotonous  cheerings  of  the  vetturino.  Suddenly  a 
face  peered  in  at  the  window,  so  singular  and  start- 
ling in  its  features  and  expression,  as  to  convey  an 
impression  never  to  be  forgotten.  The  beggar  throng 
seemed  to  have  been  awed  into  a  retreat  by  the  stran- 
ger's appearance ;  so  that  the  idea,  that  he  was  of 
their  fraternity,  was  banished  as  soon  as  suggested. 
Grasping  the  knob  of  the  coach  door,  and  leaning  over 
till  his  long  dark  beard  rested  on  the  window  sill,  he 
gazed  with  stern  mournfulness  upon  us,  and  muttered, 
in  a  subdued,  quiet  tone,  alternately  in  German  and 
Italian,  —  "  I  did  n't  do  it,"  till  our  vehicle  reached 
the  summit  of  the  mountain,  when,  at  the  renewed 
speed  of  the  horses,  he  stopped,  waved  his  hand, 
looked  after  us  a  moment,  and  was  lost  to  view. 


THE    DISCLAIMER.  105 

\Miile  we  were  tarrying  at  the  gate,  to  obtain  the 
requisite  signatm-es  to  our  passports,  a  fine-looking 
old  gentleman,  one  of  the  occupants  of  the  cabriolet, 
perceiving  my  thoughts  were  still  upon  the  remarkar 
ble  intrusion  we  had  recently  experienced,  seemed 
disposed  to  converse  on  the  subject. 

"  Was  not  that  a  head  for  Salvator's  pencil  ?  "  he 
asked. 

''  Ay  —  think  ye  he  could  not  unfold  a  tale  meet 
for  Dante's  Inferno  ?  "  inquu^ed  the  friar. 

The  old  man  seemed  somewhat  offended,  and  turned 
away  without  replying. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  aught  of  this  man?  "  I  asked. 

"  Signer,"  he  rephed,  ''  perhaps  I  can.  We  shall 
doubtless  meet  ere  many  days,  at  the  caffe  or  on  the 
Pmcian  " 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  officer  who  returned  us 
our  passports,  and  in  a  moment  after  we  were  rattling 
by  the  fountam  in  the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  most  of  us 
absorbed  in  the  thousand  varying  emotions  with  which 
the  stranger  for  the  first  time  enters  the  Eternal  city. 

Whoever  would  effectually  banish  the  disagreeable 
impression  which  the  first  view  of  the  Forum,  when 
seen  by  the  garish  light  of  day,  almost  invariably 
induces,  should  early  avail  himself  of  a  moonhght 
evening,  to  renew  his  visit.  The  wood  merchants, 
lounging  among  their  cattle  and  diminutive  carts  — 
the  score  of  ant-like  excavators,  and  the  groups  of 
improvidents,  are  then  no  longer  visible,  and  the 


106  friendship's  gift. 

scene  exhibits  something  of  the  dignity  which  we 
spontaneously  associate  with  Roman  ruins.  At  such 
a  season  I  had  perambulated,  more  than  once,  the 
space  between  the  Arch  of  Titus  and  the  Temple  of 
Peace,  and  began  to  wonder  that  no  other  sojourner 
had  been  tempted  by  the  auspicious  light  to  roam 
thither  —  for  the  moon  was  nearly  full,  and  the  at- 
mosphere remarkably  clear  —  when,  happening  to 
glance  toward  the  Cohseum,  I  saw  a  stately  figure 
emerge  from  the  pile,  as  if  to  answer  my  conjecture. 
There  are  circumstances  under  which  the  sight  of  a 
human  being  —  simply  as  such  —  is  an  event  of  pro- 
found interest.  Thus  it  was  on  this  occasion  ;  and  I 
stepped  from  the  shadow  of  the  ruin  near  which  I  was 
standing,  that  the  stranger  might  be  aware  of  my  pres- 
ence. Immediately  his  steps  were  directed  toward  me, 
and,  while  yet  at  some  distance,  the  voice  in  which  his 
salutation  was  uttered,  convinced  me  that  my  aged 
comioagnon  de  voyage  was  approaching.  In  a  few 
moments  we  were  seated  upon  a  bench  which  some 
laborers  had  left  among  the  weeds,  muffled  in  our 
cloaks ;  and  thus  the  old  man  spoke  in  answer  to  my 
entreaties  for  his  promised  tale. 

"  It  is  a  curious  study,  signer,  to  trace  the  inklings 
of  superstition,  where  the  general  vein  of  character  is 
vivacious  or  its  elements  intense.  And  it  is,  perhaps, 
impossible  for  an  unimaginative  mind  to  understand 
the  deep  interest  which  urges  some  men  daringly  to 
touch  the  sensitive  and  latent  chords  of  the  human 


THE    DISCLAIMER.  107 

heart,  in  order  to  call  fortli  their  mystic  music.  Yet 
with  Carl  Werner,  the  love  of  thus  experimenting  was 
a  passion.  Not  that  he  lacked  susceptibility ;  on  the 
contrary,  the  very  refinement  of  his  feelings  led  him 
to  speculate  upon  the  deeper  and  more  intricate 
characteristics  of  his  race.  Deeply  imbued  with  the 
transcendental  spirit  which  distinguishes  the  intellect- 
ual men  of  his  country,  his  curiosity  was  essentially 
ideal.  Several  years  ago  he  arrived  in  Rome,  and 
was  soon  domesticated  in  the  family  of  Christofero 
Verdi,  whose  suit  of  apartments  were  directly  above 
a  range  of  studios  in  one  of  the  most  extensive  build- 
ings in  the  Via  Condotta.  His  rooms,  as  you  must 
be  aware,  if  you  have  many  acquaintances  among  the 
German  residents  here,  were,  at  this  time,  a  great 
resort  for  northern  artists.  Berenice  Verdi,  his  only 
child,  was  one  of  those  beings  who  seem  destined  to 
pass  through  life  without  being  justly  apprehended 
even  by  their  intimates.  There  was  a  peculiar  Avant 
of  correspondence  between  her  ordinary  manner  and 
real  disposition.  She  was  playful  rather  than  serious, 
and  yet  beneath  a  winning  sportiveness  of  demeanor, 
deep  and  strange  elements  of  feeling  and  fancy  were 
glowing.  Between  Carl  and  Berenice  there  grew  up 
a  strong  sympathy ;  and  yet  the  sentiment  could  not 
be  called  love  Indeed,  her  habitual  treatment  of 
her  father's  young  friend  was  what  the  world  would 
have  called  coquettish.  She  was  ever  rallying  him 
on  liis  peculiarities,  and  he  was  ever  acting  the  phi- 


108  friendship's  gift. 

losopher  rather  than  the  beau.  But  the  truth  was, 
she  deeply  reverenced  Carl,  and  T\'as  dra^n  toward 
him  by  his  very  isolation  and  kindness ;  and  he  saw 
farther  into  her  character  than  any  one  else,  and  was 
sensible  of  an  interest  such  as  the  consciousness  of 
this  insight  alone,  would  naturally  inspire.  Berenice 
was  nervous  and  excitable  in  her  temperament,  and 
susceptible  to  the  awful  in  romance  beyond  any  being 
I  ever  knew.  Carl  wielded  this  influence  with  the 
freedom  and  power  of  an  imaginative  German.  She 
felt  his  sway,  and,  like  other  unacknowledged  victims 
in  the  social  universe,  strove,  perhaps  unwittingly,  by 
an  assumed  appearance,  to  keep  out  of  sight  reality. 

"  Carl  came  to  Rome  professedly  as  an  artist ; 
but  the  views,  the  motives,  the  very  spirit  of  the  man 
were  as  totally  unlike  those  which  influence  and 
characterize  the  multitude  of  students  of  painting  and 
sculpture  who  frequent  this  region,  as  his  physiogomy ; 
and  that,  you  are  aware,  is  sufficiently  remarkable. 
One  trait,  which  I  observed  at  once,  was  sufficient  to 
distinguish  him  from  the  herd.  So  wide  and  seem- 
ingly impassable,  in  his  mind,  was  the  chasm  between 
conception  and  execution,  that  his  genius,  inventive 
and  active  as  it  was,  appeared  completely  thwarted 
and  bewildered.  The  few  results  of  its  exercise  with 
which  I  am  acquainted,  were  called  forth  by  the 
appeal  of  friendship ;  and  these  were  altogether  in- 
sufficient to  rescue  the  young  German  from  the  charge 
of  idleness  and  apathy  brought  against  him,  some- 


THE    DISCLAIMER.  109 

times  with  no  little  asperity,  by  some  members  of  his 
fraternity.  But  Carl  duly  received  his  remittances, 
discharged  his  obligations,  contributed  his  moiety 
toward  the  convivial  enjoyments  of  his  compatriots, 
and  molested  no  one ;  and,  therefore,  he  was  per- 
mitted to  enjoy  his  eccentricities  in  comparative  peace. 
One  or  two  letters  were,  indeed,  forwarded  by  a  pre- 
tentious acquaintance  to  his  nearest  relative,  sug- 
gesting the  expediency  of  incarcerating  him  in 
an  insane  asylum ;  but  as  no  notice  was  taken 
of  the  epistles,  it  is  presumed  they  shared  the 
common  fate  of  voluntary  advice,  and  were  treated 
with  perfect  indifference,  silent  indignation,  or  con- 
tempt. The  conduct  which  mduced  such  a  pro- 
cedure was,  in  truth,  such  as  an  ordinary  observer 
would  naturally  ascribe  to  mental  aberration ;  and, 
strictly  speaking,  it  might  have  been  thus  accounted 
for  philosophically.  Carl  passed  the  greater  part  of 
every  night  amid  these  ruins  ;  his  speculations  on  the 
obehsks,  treasures  of  the  Vatican,  and  even  on  the 
opera  performances,  were  as  unintelligible  to  most 
persons  as  they  were  intrinsically  peculiar.  But  his 
chief  peculiarity  was  that  to  which  I  first  alluded  —  a 
disposition  to  play  upon  the  minds  of  his  fellow  beings, 
by  addressing  their  hopes  and  fears  through  the  me- 
dium of  imagination.  I  could  not  now  relate  the 
thousand  anecdotes  I  have  heard  in  illustration  of  the 
force  of  this  propensity  in  him.  The  single,  fatal  in- 
9 


110  friendship's  gift. 

stance,  of  the  effects  of  which  I  was  personally  a  wit- 
ness, will  suffice. 

"  One  evening,  while  Carl  and  several  brother  ar- 
tists were  enjoying  their  cofifee  at  Christofero's,  the 
conversation  turned  upon  portrait  painting,  and  finally 
upon  the  attempts  of  artists  to  portray  themselves. 
Berenice  —  who  just  before  had  related  a  dream,  in 
which  several  of  the  old  portraits  in  the  Barbarini 
Palace  seemed  to  her  suddenly  endowed  withhfe,  and 
to  converse  together  on  some  of  the  political  interests 
of  their  times  —  rallied  Carl  as  beuig  the  only  one  of 
the  coterie  who  had  not  attempted  his  otvti  likeness. 
'  Confess,  Werner,'  said  she,  '  that  the  fear  of  not  do- 
ing justice  to  thy  notable  phiz,  has  deterred  thee 
from  any  endeavor  to  prepare  even  a  sketch  for  thy 
friends  in  Leipsic.  I  doubt  if  thou  wouldst  allow  Tit- 
ian and  Raphael,  should  they  re-appear,  to  share  the 
honor  of  depicting  thee.'  Carl  made  no  reply  save 
by  composedly  sipping  his  favorite  beverage  ;  and 
when  the  laugh  had  subsided,  the  subject  was  forgot- 
ten in  the  discussion  of  some  other  topic. 

"  On  a  fine  afternoon,  a  few  days  after  this  inter- 
view, Carl  and  Berenice  incidentally  met  on  the  dark 
stair-way.  It  was  not  usual  for  the  former  to  go  forth 
at  that  hour,  and  the  latter  was  in  a  conversable  hu- 
mor. By  way  of  beginning  a  colloquy,  she  begged 
the  loan  of  a  particular  drawing.  Werner,  as  usual, 
expressed  his  readiness  to  oblige  her,  and  hurried  on ; 
but  after  descending  a  few  steps,  he  turned  round,  as 


THE    DISCLAIMER.  Ill 

if  a  sudden  and  important  thought  had  struck  him. 
*  Berenice,'  said  he,  '  go  not  to  mj  room  for  the  sketch  ; 
I  will  bring  it  thee  in  an  hour.'  Having  thus  spoken, 
he  hastened  awav,  the  iron-shod  heels  of  his  boots 
ringing  on  the  stone  stau'S,  till  he  reached  the  street 
door  —  then,  returning,  with  a  noiseless  tread,  to  his 
studio,  he  so  arranged  the  window  curtains  as  to  ex- 
clude all  light  except  the  chastened  rays  that  gleamed 
through  the  upper  panes,  and  shot  obliquely  across 
the  room,  leaving  the  side  which  was  hung  with  paint- 
ings in  shadow.  Here  he  had  previously  stationed  an 
easel  upon  which  rested  a  fresh  and  richly-draped  por- 
trait, wiiile  from  its  edge,  masses  of  green  cloth  fell 
in  folds  to  the  floor,  so  that  nothing  but  the  projecting 
top  and  slanting  position  of  the  machine  rendered  it 
cognizable.  To  cut  out,  with  a  sharp  penknife,  the 
head  from  the  picture,  and  insert  his  own  living  head 
in  its  place,  to  comb  the  hair  and  whiskers  outward 
upon  the  canvass  so  as  to  render  it  impossible  to  dis- 
tinguish the  actual  from  the  portrayed,  to  fix  his  dark, 
deep  eye  upon  a  distant  point,  and  compose  into 
death-like  quietude  the  lines  of  his  expressive  coun- 
tenance, —  all  this  with  Carl  was  but  the  work  of  a 
moment. 

"  Meantime  Berenice  might  be  heard  restlessly  pa- 
cing the  narrow  bounds  of  her  little  boudoir  overliesid, 
her  mind  occupied  precisely  as  Werner  had  anticipat- 
ed. '  What  can  Carl  be  about  ? '  she  musingly  in- 
quired ;  '  now  what  if  w^e  have  laughed  him  into  tak- 


112  friendship's  gift. 

ing  Ids  own  portrait?  A  capital  joke,  truly,  to 
broach  at  supper  to-night !  What !  the  mclependent, 
self-sufficient  Werner,  who  lives  in  the  clouds,  spurred 
into  unwonted  action  by  the  ridicule  of  us  —  common 
mortals  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  There  can  be  no  harm  in  tak- 
ing a  single  peep  into  his  sanctum.  ^  By  this  time  he 
is  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  or  in  the  Villa  Bor- 
ghese.'  And  with  these  reflections,  Berenice  ran 
down,  and  stole  gently  into  the  apartment  of  the 
mysterious  artist. 

"  Her  eye  fell  directly  upon  the  countenance  of 
Werner.  '  Conceited  as  ever  !'  she  exclaimed,  re- 
garding the  elegant  drapery  depicted  upon  the  can- 
vass ;  '  and  the  likeness,  —  poh  !  that's  no  better  than 
it  should  be  ;  the  brow  is  too  ample,  the  eye  too  ex- 
pressive ;  that  scornful  play  of  the  lip,  though,  is 
right.  Well,  I  suppose  this  flattered,  wooden-looking 
portrait  must  be  lauded  as  the  best  product  of  the 
pencil  since  Vandyke's  time  —  and  all  because  of  the 
industrious,  affable  and  gifted  Carl  Werner,  of  Leip- 
sic  ! '  As  Berenice  uttered  the  last  sentence,  in  a  tone 
of  irony,  she  fixed  her  gaze  upon  the  eyes  of  the  por- 
trait. The  echo  of  her  words  seemed  marvellously 
prolonged,  and  just  as  it  died  away,  the  solemn  chant 
of  a  priestly  train,  about  to  administer  the  last  sacra- 
ment to  the  dying  inhabitant  of  the  next  dwelling  stole 
mournfully  up  from  the  street.  The  latent  supersti- 
tion of  Berenice  was  awakened.  Her  gaze  became 
more  steadfast.     She  thought,  she  dreamed,  —  nay, 


THE    DISCLAIMER,  113 

she  felt  that  those  eyes  were  reading  her  soul  as  they 
full  oft  had  done  ;  the  electric  fluid  which  only  living 
eyes  can  communicate  was  perceptibly  radiated  :  the 
very  hps  seemed  wreathing  into  a  meaning  smile,  and 
the  hnes  of  the  forehead  working  as  she  had  seen 
them  in  his  thoughtful  moods.  She  would  have  given 
worlds  to  have  withdrawn  her  gaze  ;  but  the  illusion 
was  too  complete.  She  kneeled  down  from  very  fee- 
bleness and  awe,  and  folding  her  arms  fervently  upon 
her  bosom,  as  if  to  still  its  audible  throbbings,  she 
gazed  on  like  a  fascinated  bird.  Cold  dew  distilled 
upon  her  brow  ;  the  fever  of  her  blood  dried  it  away, 
and  now  its  surface  was  calm,  and  unmoistened,  like 
newly-chiseled  marble. 

"  Her  emotions,  individually  intense  as  they  were, 
in  their  now  concentrated  energy,  were  momentarily 
growing  more  miendurable.  She  leaned  forward  in 
an  agony  of  expectation.  The  aspect  of  the  por- 
trait remained  unchanged,  but  from  the  lips  stole  out, 
in  the  tones  which  had  won  her  heart,  the  single  word 
— '  Berenice  ! '  It  struck  her  ear  like  the  knell  of  a 
catastrophe.  She  uttered  one  despairing  cry,  and 
sunk  upon  the  floor.  That  ejaculation  was  borne  on 
her  last  breath. 

"  When  my  efibrts  had  been  unavaihngly  exhausted 
in  efibrts  to  resuscitate  the  unfortunate  lady  —  for  be- 
ing the  nearest  physician,  I  was  first  called  —  my  at- 
tention was  turned  toward  the  wretched  originator  of 
the  tragedy.  Werner  lay  crouched  upon  the  carpet, 
9* 


114  friendship's  gift. 

gazing  with  an  expression  in  wliich  insanity  and  des- 
pair "svere  strangely  blended,  upon  the  form  of  Bere- 
nice. Reason  was  now,  indeed,  overthrown.  Per- 
ceiving himself  noticed,  he  craAvled  to  my  feet,  and 
looking  piteously  up,  murmured  in  a  convulsive  tone 
— '  I  didn't  do  it.''  His  constant  repetition  of  this 
phrase,  year  after  year,  has  obtained  for  him  the  title 
of  The  Disclaimer.  Remorse  peoples  his  imagina- 
tion with  her  awful  images.  And  he  will  doubtless  be 
a  wanderer,  feared  by  the  rabble  and  pitied  by  few, 
till  accident  or  disease  lays  low  his  powerful  frame, 
and  enfranchises  from  the  thrall  of  insanity  his  extra- 
ordinary and  aspiring  spirit." 


SECRET  COURTSHIP. 


BERANGER. 


A  blind  mother  sits  in  a  cottage,  beside  her  pretty  daughter,  and  cautions 
her  against  love,  while,  all  the  time,  an  amatory  scene  is  going  on  between  the 
girl  and  the  very  lover  whom  the  old  dame  dreads. 

Daughter,  while  you  turn  your  wheel, 

Listen  to  the  words  I  say. 
Colin  has  contrived  to  steal 

Your  unthinking  heart  away. 
Of  his  fawning  voice  beware, 
You  are  all  the  blind  one's  care. 
And  I  mark  your  ?ighs,  when'er 

Our  young  neighbors'  name  is  heard. 
Colin's  tongue  is  false,  though  winning  — 

Hist!  the  window  is  unbarred! 
Ah !  Lisette,  you  are  not  spinning ! 

The  room  is  close  and  warm,  you  say ; 

But,  my  daughter  do  not  peep 
Through  the  casement  —  night  and  day 
Colin  there  his  watch  doth  keep. 
Think  not  mine  a  grumbling  tongue: 
Ah  I  here  at  my  breast  you  hung, 
I,  like  you,  was  fair  and  young, 


116  friendship's  gift. 

And  I  know  how  apt  is  love 
To  lead  the  youthful  heart  to  sinning - 

Hist !  the  door,  I  hear  it  move, 
Ah  !  Lisette,  you  are  not  spinning ! 

It  is  a  gust  of  wind  you  say, 

That  hath  made  the  hinges  grate  ; 
And  my  poor,  old  growling  Tray, 

Must  you  break  for  that  his  pate  ? 
Ah,  my  child,  put  faith  in  me ; 
Age  permits  me  to  foresee 
Colin  soon  will  faithless  be, 

And  your  love  to  an  abyss 
Of  grief,  will  be  the  sad  beginning  — 

Bless  me  !  sure  I  heard  a  kiss ! 
Ah  !  Lisette,  you  are  not  spinning  ! 

'T  was  your  little  bird  you  say. 

Gave  that  tender  kiss,  just  now; 
Make  him  cease  his  trifling,  pray, 

He  will  rue  it  else,  I  vow. 
Love,  my  girl,  oft  bringeth  pain, 
Shame  and  sorrow,  in  its  train. 
While  the  false,  successful  swain. 

Scorns  the  heart  he  hath  beguiled 
From  true  virtue's  path  to  sinning  — 

Hist !  I  hear  you  move,  child  ! 
Ah  !  Lisette,  you  are  not  spinning  I 

You  wish  to  take  the  air  you  say ; 

Think  you,  daughter,  I  believe  you  r 
Bid  young  Colin  go  his  way. 

Or  at  once,  as  bride  receive  you  ! 


SECRET   COURTSHIP. 

Let  him  go  to  church,  and  there 
Show  his  purpose  to  he  fair  ; 
But,  till  then,  beside  my  chair 

You  must  work,  my  girl,  nor  heed 
All  his  vows,  so  fond  and  winning, 

Tangled  in  love's  web,  indeed  — 
Lisette,  my  daughter,  mind  your  spinning! 


117 


THE  BLUE  E'ED  LASSIE. 


BY   JOHN    IMLAH. 

1  lo'e  thee,  lassie  !  ah  !  how  weel, 

Nae  thocht  can  reach  —  nae  word  reveal  — 

As  nane  hae  felt  —  as  nane  can  feel, 

My  bonnie  blue  e'ed  lassie,  O. 

I  lo'e  thee  mair,  sweet  Isabel, 

Than  sign  can  show,  or  tongue  can  tell 

My  love,  my  life,  my  second  sel'. 

My  bonnie  blue  e'ed  lassie,  O. 

O  !  then  by  lip  or  look  convey, 
How  I  may  wile  thy  heart  away, 
And  I  will  bless  thee  night  and  day, 

My  bonnie  blue  e'ed  lassie,  O. 

Say,  shall  I  roose  thy  rougish  mou', 
Or  praise  thy  pawkie  e'en  sae  blue, 
What  shall  I  say  ?  what  can  I  do  ? 

My  bonnie  blue  e'ed  lassie,  O. 

Should  cares  combine,  and  ills  increase. 
To  wreck  my  pleasure,  rest,  and  peace  — 
Were  life  but  torment  —  death  release, 
My  bonnie  blue  e'ed  lassie,  O. 


THE    BLUE    e'eD    LASSIE.  119 

For  thy  sweet  sake  —  for  thine  alane, 
Through  toil  and  trouble,  grief  and  pain, 
I'd  live  to  lo'e,  and  ca'  my  ain. 

My  bonnie  blue  e'ed  lassie,  O. 


SONG. 


ANONYMOUS. 


The  birds  have  sung  themselves  to  rest. 

That  flitted  'round  our  bower; 
The  weight  of  the  night-dew  has  bowed 

The  head  of  every  flower; 

The  ringing  of  the  hunter's  horn 

Has  ceased  upon  the  hill ; 
The  cottage  windows  gleam  with  light. 

The  harvest  song  is  still ! 

And  safe  and  silent  in  the  bay, 
Is  moored  each  fisher's  prow ; 

Each  wearied  one  has  sought  his  home. 
But  where,  my  love,  art  thou  ? 

I  picked  a  rose,  a  red  blush  rose, 

Just  as  the  dews  begun, 
I  kissed  its  leaves,  but  thought  one  kiss 

Would  be  a  sweeter  one. 

I  kept  the  rose  and  kiss,  I  thought 
How  dear  they  both  would  be ! 

But  now  I  fear  the  rose  and  kiss 
Are  kept  in  vain  for  thee  ! 


IvC^^ 


THE  TALKING  LADY. 


BY   MISS    MITFoRD. 

Ben  Joxson  has  a  play  called  The  Silent  Woman, 
who  turns  out,  as  might  be  expected,  to  be  no  woman 
at  all  —  nothing,  as  Master  Slender  said,  ''  but  a 
great  lubberly  boy;  "  thereby,  as  I  apprehend,  dis- 
courteously presuming  that  a  silent  woman  is  a  non- 
entity. If  the  learned  dramatist,  thus  happily  pre- 
pared and  pre-disposed,  had  happened  to  fall  in  with 
such  a  specimen  of  female  loquacity  as  I  have  just 
parted  with,  he  might,  perhaps,  have  given  us  a  pen- 
dant to  his  picture  in  the  Talking  Lady.  Pity  but  he 
had  !  He  would  have  done  her  justice,  which  I  could 
not  at  any  time,  least  of  all  now :  I  am  too  much 
stunned  ;  too  much  hke  one  escaped  from  a  belfry  on 
a  coronation  day.  I  am  just  resting  from  the  fatigue 
of  four  days'  hard  listening ;  four  snowy,  sleety,  rainy 
days  —  days  of  every  variety  of  falling  weather,  all  of 
them  too  bad  to  admit  the  possibility  that  any  petti- 
coated  thing,  were  she  as  hardy  as  a  Scotch  fir,  should 
stir  out, —  four  days  chained  by  "sad  civility"  to 
10 


122  friendship's  gift. 

that  fire-side,  once  so  quiet,  and  again  —  cheeiing 
thought !  again  I  trust  to  be  so,  when  the  echo  of  that 
visiter's  incessant  tongue  shall  have  died  away. 

The  visiter  in  question,  is  a  very  excellent  and  re- 
spectable elderly  lady,  upright  in  mind  and  body,  with 
a  figure  that  does  honor  to  her  dancing-master,  a  face 
exceedingly  well  preserved,  wrinkled  and  freckled, 
but  still  fair,  and  an  air  of  gentihty  over  her  whole 
person,  which  is  not  the  least  affected  by  her  out-of- 
fashion  garb.  She  could  never  be  taken  for  any  thing 
but  a  woman  of  family,  and  perhaps  she  could  as  little 
pass  for  any  other  than  an  old  maid.  She  took  us  in 
her  way  from  London  to  the  West  of  England :  and 
being,  as  she  wrote,  "  not  quite  well,  not  equal  to 
much  company,  prayed  that  no  other  guest  might  be 
admitted,  so  that  she  might  have  the  pleasure  of  our 
conversation  all  to  herself," — (^  Ours  I  as  if  it  were 
possible  for  any  of  us  to  slide  in  a  word  edgewise  !)  — 
"  and  especially  enjoy  the  gratification  of  talking  over 
old  times  with  the  master  of  the  house,  her  country- 
man." Such  was  the  promise  of  her  letter,  and  to 
the  letter  it  has  been  kept.  All  the  news  and  scandal 
of  a  large  county,  forty  years  ago,  and  a  hundred 
years  before,  and  ever  since,  all  the  marriages,  deaths, 
births,  elopements,  lawsuits  and  casualties  of  her  own 
times,  her  father's,  grandfather's,  great-grandfather's, 
nephew's,  and  grand-nephew's,  has  she  detailed  with  a 
minuteness,  an  accuracy,  a  prodigality  of  learning,  a 
profuseness  of  proper  names,  a  pedantry  of  locality, 


THE    TALKING    LADY.  123 

vrliich  would  excite  the  envy  of  a  county  historian,  a 
king-at-arms,  or  even  a  Scotch  novelist.  Her  knowl- 
edge is  astonishing  ;  but  the  most  astonishing  part  of 
all  is,  how  she  came  by  that  knowledge.  It  should 
seem,  to  listen  to  her,  as  if,  at  some  time  of  her  life, 
ehe  had  listened  herself ;  and  yet  her  countryman  de- 
clares, that  in  the  forty  years  he  has  known  her,  no 
such  event  has  occured  ;  and  she  knows  new  news,  too  ! 
It  must  be  intuition. 

The  manner  of  her  speech  has  little  remarkable. 
It  is  rather  old-fashioned  and  provincial,  but  perfectly 
lady-like,  low  and  gentle,  and  not  seeming  so  fast  as 
it  is  ;  like  the  great  pedestrians  she  dears  her  ground 
easily,  and  never  seems  to  use  any  exertion ;  yet,  "  I 
would  mj  horse  had  the  speed  of  her  tongue,  and  so 
good  a  contuiuer."  She  will  talk  you  sixteen  hours  a 
day  for  twenty  days  together,  and  not  deduct  one 
poor  five  minutes  for  halts  and  baiting  time.  Talk- 
ing, sheer  talking,  is  meat  and  drink  and  sleep  to  her. 
She  likes  nothing  else.  Eating  is  a  sad  interruption 
For  the  tea-table  she  has  some  toleration  ;  but  dinner, 
with  its  clatter  of  plates  and  jingle  of  knives  and  forks, 
•dinner  is  her  abhorrence.  Nor  are  the  other  common 
pursuits  of  life  more  in  her  favor.  Walking  exliausts 
the  breath  that  might  be  better  employed.  Dancing 
is  a  noisy  diversion,  and  singing  is  worse  ;  she  cannot 
endure  any  music,  except  the  long,  grand,  dull  con- 
certo, which  nobody  thinks  of  listening  to.  Reading 
and  chess  she  classes  together  as  silent  barbarisms. 


124  friendship's  gift. 

unworthy  of  a  social  and  civilized  people.  Cards,  too, 
have  their  faults ;  there  is  a  rivalry,  a  mute  eloquence 
in  those  four  aces,  that  leads  away  the  attention  ;  be- 
sides, partners  will  sometimes  scold  ;  so  she  never 
plays  at  cards ;  and  upon  the  strength  of  this  absti- 
nence had  very  nearly  passed  for  serious,  till  it  was 
discovered  that  she  could  not  abide  a  long  sermon. 
She  always  looks  out  for  the  shortest  preacher,  and 
never  went  to  above  one  Bible  meeting  in  her  hfe. 
"  Such  speeches  !  "  quoth  she,  ''  I  thought  the  men 
never  meant  to  have  done.  People  have  great  need 
of  patience."  Plaj^s,  of  course,  she  abhors;  and  ope- 
ras, and  mobs,  and  all  things  that  will  be  heard,  es- 
pecially children  ;  though  for  babies,  particularly  when 
asleep,  for  dogs  and  pictures,  and  such  silent  intelli- 
gences as  serve  to  talk  of  and  talk  to,  she  has  a  con- 
siderable partiality  ;  and  an  agreeable  and  gracious 
flattery  to  the  mammas  and  other  owners  of  these 
pretty  dumb  things  is  a  very  usual  introduction  to  her 
miscellaneous  harangues.  The  matter  of  these  ora- 
tions is  inconceivably  various.  Perhaps  the  local  and 
genealogical  anecdotes,  the  sort  of  supplement  to  the 
history  of  *  *  *  *  *  shire,  may  be  her  strongest  point ; 
but  she  shines  almost  as  much  in  medicine  and  house- 
wifery. Her  medical  dissertations  savor  a  little  of 
that  particular  branch  of  the  science  called  quackery. 
She  has  a  specific  against  almost  every  disease  to 
which  the  human  frame  is  liable  ;  and  is  terribly 
prosy  and  unmerciful  in  her  symptoms.     Her  cures 


THE    TALKING    LADY.  125 

kill.  Ill  house-keeping,  her  notions  resemble  those  of 
other  verbal  managers  ;  full  of  economy  and  retrench- 
ment, with  a  leaning  towards  reform,  though  she  loves 
so  well  to  declaim  on  the  abuses  in  the  cook's  depart- 
ment, that  I  am  not  sure  that  she  would  very  heartily 
thank  any  radical  who  should  sweep  them  quite  away. 
For  the  rest,  her  system  sounds  very  finely  in  theory, 
but  rather  fails  in  practice.  Her  recipes  would  be 
capital,  only  that  someway  or  oth^r  they  do  not  eat 
well ;  her  preserves  seldom  keep ;  and  her  sweet 
wines  are  sure  to  turn  sour.  These  are  certainly  her 
favorite  topics  ;  but  any  one  will  do.  Allude  to  some 
anecdote  of  the  neighborhood,  and  she  forthwith  treats 
you  with  as  many  parallel  passages  as  are  to  be  found 
in  an  air  with  variations.  Take  up  a  new  publication, 
^d  she  is  equally  at  home  there ;  for  though  she 
knows  little  of  books,  she  has,  in  the  course  of  an  up- 
and-down  life,  met  with  a  good  many  authors,  and 
teazes  and  provokes  you  by  telling  of  them  precisely 
what  you  do  not  care  to  hear,  the  maiden  names  of 
their  waives,  and  the  Christian  names  of  their  daugh- 
ters, and  into  what  families  their  sisters  and  cousins 
married,  and  in  what  towns  they  have  lived,  what 
streets,  and  what  numbers.  Boswell  himself  never 
drew  up  the  table  of  Dr.  Johnson's  Fleet-street  courts 
with  greater  care,  than  she  made  out  to  me  the  suc- 
cessive residences  of  P.  P.,  Esq.,  author  of  a  tract  on 
the  French  Revolution,  and  a  pamphlet  on  the  Poor 
Laws.  The  very  weather  is  not  a  safe  subject.  Her 
10* 


lUSl  FEIEI<DSHIP'S    GIFT. 

memory  is  a  perpetual  register  of  hard  frosts,  and  long 
droughts,   and  high  winds,  and  terrible  storms,  with 
all  the  evils  that  followed  in  their  train,  and  all  the 
personal  events  connected  with  them,   so  that  if  you 
happen  to  remark  that  clouds  are  come  up,  and  you 
fear  it  may  rain,  she  replies,  "  Ay,  it  is  just  such  a 
morning  as  three  and  thirty  years  ago,  when  my  poor 
cousin  was  married — you  remember  my  cousui  Bar- 
bara—  she  married  so  and  so,  the  son  of  so  and  so  ; '' 
and  then  comes  the  Avhole  pedigree  of  the  bridegroom  ; 
the  amount  of  the  settlements,  and  the  reading  and 
signmg  them  over  night ;  a  description  of  the  wedding- 
dresses,  in  the  style  of  Su*   Charles  Grandison,  and 
how  much  the  bride's  gown  cost  per  yard ;  the  names, 
residences,   and  a  short    subsequent    history   of  the 
bridemaids   and  men,  the  gentleman  who    gave  the 
bride  away,  and  the  clergyman  w^ho  performed  the 
ceremony,  with  a  learned  antiquarian  digression  rela- 
tive to  the  church  ;  then  the  setting  out  in  procession  ; 
the  marriage  ;  the  kissing  ;  the    crying ;  the  break- 
fasting ;  the  drawing  the  cake  through  the  ring  ;  and 
finally,  the  bridal  excursion,  which   brings  us  back 
again  at  an  hour's  end  to  the  starting-post,  the  w^eath- 
er,  and  the  whole  story  of  the  sopping,  the  drying,  the 
clothes-spoiling,  the  cold-catching,  and  all  the  small 
evils  of  a  summer  shower.     By  this  time  it  rains,  and 
she  sits  down  to  a  pathetic   see-saw  of  conjectures  on 
the  chance  of  Mrs.   Smith's  having  set  out  for  her 
daily  walk,  or  the  possibility  that  Dr.  Brown  may 


THE    TALKING    LADY.  "     12^ 

have  ventured  to  visit  his  patients  in  his  gig,  and  the 
certainty  that  Lady  Green's  new  house-maid  would 
come  from  London  on  the  outside  of  the  coach. 

With  all  this  intolerable  prosing,    she  is   actually 
reckoned  a  pleasant  woman !     Her  acquaintance  in 
the  great  manufacturing  town  where  she  usually  re- 
sides is  very  large,  which  may  partly  account  for  the 
misnomer.     Her  conversation  is  of  a  sort  to  bear  di- 
viding.    Besides,  there  is,  in  all  large  societies,  an 
instinctive  sympathy  which  directs  each  individual  to 
the  companion  most  congenial  to  his  humour.     Doubt- 
less, her  associates   deserve  the   old  French  compli- 
ment, "  Us  ont  tons  tin  grand  talent  pour  le  silence.'' 
Parcelled  out  amongst  some  seventy  or  eighty,  there 
tnay  even  be  some  savour  in  her  talk.     It  is  the  tete-a- 
tete  that  kills,  or  the  small  fire-side   circle  of  three  or 
four,  where  only  one  can  speak,  and  all  the  rest  must 
seem  to  listen — seem  did  I  say  ?  —  must  listen  in 
good  earnest.     Hotspur's  expedient  in  a  similar  situa- 
tion of  crying  "  Hem  !  Go  to,"  and  marking  not  a 
word,  will  not  do  here  ;  compared  to  her,  Owen  Glen- 
dower  was  no  conjurer.     She  has  the  eye  of  a  hawk, 
and  detects  a  wandering  glance,  an  incipient  yawn, 
the   slightest  movement   of   impatience.      The  very 
needle  must  be  quiet.     If  a  pair  of  scissors  do  but 
wag,  she  is  affronted,  draws  herself  up,  breaks  off  in 
the  middle  of  a  story,  of  a  sentence,  of  a  word,  and 
the  unlucky  culprit  must,  for  civility's  sake,  summon  a 
more  than  Spartan  fortitude,  and  beg  the  torturer  to 


128 


resume  her  torments  —  "That,  that  is  the  unkindest 
cut  of  all !"  I  wonder,  if  she  had  happened  to  have 
married,  how  many  husbands  she  w^ould  have  talked  to 
death.  It  is  certain  that  none  of  her  relations  are 
longlived  after  she  comes  to  reside  with  them.  Fath- 
er, mother,  uncle,  sister,  brother,  two  nephews,  and 
one  niece,  all  these  have  successively  passed  away, 
though  a  healthy  race,  and  with  no  visible  disorder  — 
except  —  but  we  must  not  be  uncharitable.  The}' 
might  have  died,  though  she  had  been  born  dumb  :  — 
"  It  is  an  accident  that  happens  every  day."  Since 
the  disease  of  her  last  nephew,  she  attempted  to  form 
an  establishment  with  a  widow  lady,  for  the  sake,  as 
they  both  said,  of  the  comfort  of  society.  But  — 
strange  miscalculation  !  she  was  a  talker  too  !  They 
parted  in  a  w^eek. 

And  we  have  also  parted.  I  am  just  returning 
from  escorting  her  to  the  coach,  which  is  to  convey 
her  two  hundred  miles  westward ;  and  I  have  still  the 
murmur  of  her  adieux  resounding  in  my  ears,  like  the 
indistinct  hum  of  the  air  on  a  frosty  night.  It  was 
curious  to  see  how,  almost  simultaneously,  these 
mournful  adieux  shaded  into  cheerful  salutations  of 
her  new  comrades,  the  passengers  in  the  mail.  Poor 
souls  !  Little  does  the  civil  young  lad  who  made  way 
for  her,  or  the  fat  lady,  his  mamma,  who  with  pains 
and  inconvenience  made  room  for  her,  or  the  grumpy 
gentleman  in  the  opposite  corner,  who,  after  some  dis. 
pute,  was  at  length  won  to  admit  her  dressing  box, — 


THE    TALKING    LADY.  129 

little  do  tliey  suspect  what  is  to  befal  them.  Two 
hundred  miles  !  and  she  never  sleeps  in  a  carriage  ! 
Well,  patience  be  with  them,  and  comfort  and  peace  I 
A  pleasant  journey  to  them  I  And  to  her  all  happi- 
ness !  She  is  a  most  kind  and  excellent  person,  one 
for  whom  I  would  do  anything  in  my  poor  power — ah, 
even  were  it  to  listen  to  her  another  four  davs. 


SHAKSPEARE. 


BY  LAMAN    BLANCHARD. 


Deeply  reverent  as  are  now  the  countless  worshippers  of  Shakspeare,  there 
breathed  not  one,  perhaps  who  worshipped  the  bard  with  a  more  ardent  and  purer 
feeling,  than  Laman  Blanchard  ;  in  proof  of  which  let  these  lines  testify,  which 
were  written — On  the  first  page  of  a  volume  intended  for  the  reception  of  essays 
and  drawings  illustrative  of  Shakspeare . — 

Like  one  who  stands 
On  the  bright  verge  of  some  enchanted  shore, 
Where  notes  from  airy  harps,  and  hidden  hands, 
Are,  from  the  green  grass  and  golden  sands, 

Far  echoed,  o'er  and  o'er. 
As  if  the  tranced  listener  to  invite 

Into  that  world  of  light 

Thus  stood  I  here. 
Musing  awhile  on  these  unblotted  leaves, 
Till  the  blank  pages  brighten'd,  and  mine  ear 
Found  music  in  their  rustling,  sweet  and  clear, 

And  wreathes  that  fancy  weaves, 
Entwined  the  volume  —  fiU'd  with  grateful  lays, 

And  songs  of  rapturous  praise. 


SHAKSPEARE.  131 

No  sound  I  heard, 
But  echoed  o'er  and  o'er  our  Shakspeare's  name, 
One  lingering  note  of  love,  link'd  word  to  word, 
Till  every  leaf  was  as  a  fairy  bird, 

Whose  song  is  still  the  same ; 
Or  each  was  as  a  flower,  with  folded  cells 

For  Plucks  and  Ariels ! 

And  visions  grew  — 
Visions  not  brief,  though  bright,  which  frosted  age 
Hath  failed  to  rob  of  one  diviner  hue, 
Making  them  more  familiar,  yet  more  new  — 

These  flashed  into  the  page ; 
A  group  of  crowned  thmgs  —  the  radiant  themes 

Of  Shakspeare's  Avon  dreams. 

Of  crowned  things  — 
(Rare  crowns  of  living  gems  and  lasting  flowers), 
Some  in  the  human  likeness,  some  with  wings  — 
Dyed  in  the  beauty  of  ethereal  springs  — 

Some  shedding  piteous  showers 
Of  natural  tears,  and  some  in  smiles  that  fell 

Like  sunshine  on  a  dell. 

Here  Art  had  caught 
The  perfect  mould  of  Hamlet's  princely  form  — 
The  frantic  Thane,  fiend-cheated,  lived,  methought; 
Here  Timon  howl'd;  anon,  sublimely  wrought. 

Stood  Lear  amid  the  storm  ; 
There  Romeo  droop'd,  or  soared,  while  Jacques,  here. 

Still  watched  the  weeping  deer. 


132  friendship's  gift. 

And  then  a  throng 
Of  heavenly  natures,  clad  in  earthly  vest, 
Like  angel-apparitions,  pass'd  along ; 
The  rich  lipp'd  Rosaline,  all  light  and  song, 

And  Imogen's  white  breast ; 
Low-voiced  Cordelia,  with  her  stifled  sighs, 

And  Juliet's  shrouded  eyes. 

The  page,  turned  o'er, 
Show'd  Kate  —  or  Viola  —  '  my  Lady  Tongue,' 
The  lost  Venetian,  with  her  living  Moor ; 
The  Maiden-Wonder,  on  the  haunted  shore, 

Happy,  and  fair,  and  young ; 
Till  on  a  poor,  love-martyr- d  mind  I  look  — 

Ophelia  at  the  brook. 

With  sweet  Anne  Page 
The  bright  throng  ended  ;  for,  untouched  by  time. 
Came  FalstafF,  laughter-laurell'd,  young  in  age. 
With  many  a  ripe  and  sack-devoted  sage ! 

And  deathless  clowns  sublime. 
Crowded  the  leaf,  to  vanish  at  a  swoop. 

Like  Oberon  and  his  troop. 

Here  sate,  entranced, 
Malvolio,  leg  trapp'd ;  —  he  who  served  the  Jew 
Still  with  the  fiend  seem'd  running; — then  advanced 
Messina's  pretty  piece  of  flesh,  and  danced 

With  Bottom  and  his  crew  ; 
Mercutio,  Benedick,  press'd  points  of  wit, 

And  Osrick  made  his  hit. 


SHAKSPEARE.  133 

At  these,  ere  long, 
Awoke  my  laughter,  aud  the  spell  was  past ; 
Of  the  gay  multitude,  a  marvellous  throng. 
No  trace  is  here  —  no  tints,  no  word,  no  song, 

On  these  bare  leaves  are  cast  — 

The  altar  has  been  rear'd,  an  offering  fit  — 

The  flame  is  still  unlit. 

O  !  who  now  bent 
In  humble  reverence,  hopes  one  wreath  to  bind 
Worthy  of  him,  whose  genius,  strangely  blent. 
Could  kindle  "  wonder  and  astonishment" 

In  Milton's  starry  mind  ! 
Who  stood  alone,  but  not  as  one  apart. 

And  saw  man's  inmost  heart. 


11 


BETTER    DAYS. 


ANONYMOUS. 


Better  days  are  like  Hebrew  verbs,  they  have  no 
present  tense  ;  they  are  of  the  past  or  future  only. 
"  All  that's  bright  must  fade,"  says  Tom  Moore. 
Very  likely  ;  and  so  must  all  that's  not  bright.  To 
hear  some  people  talk,  you  would  imagine  that  there 
was  no  month  in  the  year  except  November,  and  that 
the  leaves  had  nothing  else  to  do  than  to  fall  off  the 
trees.  And  to  refer  again  to  Tom  Moore's  song, 
about  the  "  Stars  that  shine  and  fall,"  one  might  sup- 
pose that  by  this  time  all  the  stars  in  heaven  had  been 
blown  out  like  so  many  farthing  candles  in  a  show- 
booth  at  Bartle-my  fair ;  and  as  for  flowers  and  leaves, 
if  they  go  away,  it  is  only  to  make  way  for  new  ones. 
There  are  as  many  stars  in  heaven  as  ever  there  were 
in  the  memory  of  man,  and  as  many  flowers  on  earth, 
too  ;  and  perhaps  more  in  England,  for  we  are  always 
making  fresh  importations.  It  is  all  very  well  now 
and  then  to  have  a  bit  of  a  grunt,  or  a  growl,  or  a 
grumble,  or  a  lamentation;    but  one   mend-fault  is 


BETTER     DAYS.  135 

worth  ten  find-faults,  all  the  world  over.  It  is  all 
right  enough  when  the  Ijarometer  of  the  purse  is  low 
—  when  the  stomach  is  out  of  order  —  to  say  that 
things  are  not  as  they  used  to  be ;  and  I  would  not 
for  all  the  world  deprive  an  honest  man  of  the  pleas- 
ure of  grumbling ;  it  is  an  Englishman's  birthwright. 
But  I  don't  like  to  see  a  matter  of  feeling  made  a 
matter  of  history  and  philosophic  verity  ;  let  us  have 
our  growl  and  have  done  with  it.  But  some  croakers 
remmd  one  of  the  boy  who  said  his  grandmother  went 
up  stairs  nineteen  times  a  day  and  never  came  down 
again.  Or,  to  seek  for  another  resemblance,  they  may 
be  likened  to  the  Irish  grave  digger,  who  was  seen 
one  night  looking  about  the  churchyard  with  a  lantern 
in  his  hand.  "  What  have  you  lost,  Pat  ?  "  "  Oh,  I 
have  lost  my  lantern  !  "  "  You  have  your  lantern  in 
your  hand."  "  Oh,  but  this  is  a  lantern  I've  foimd, 
it  is  not  a  lantern  I  have  lost."  Thus  it  is  with  men 
in  general :  they  think  more  of  the  lantern  they  have 
lost,  than  of  the  lantern  they  have  found.  It  is  true 
indeed,  that  things  are  not  what  they  were  with  any 
of  us. 

Great  changes  have  taken  place,  and  more  are  daily 
taking  place ;  but  there  are  greater  changes  in  our 
feelings  and  apprehensions  than  there  are  in  the  ex- 
ternal world  or  in  the  general  frame  of  society.  What 
a  great  change  must  have  taken  place  between  the 
time  of  the  seige  of  Troy  and  the  days  of  Homer  : 
for  the  poet  speaks  of  Ajax  pelting  Greeks  with  stones 


136  friendship's  gift. 

of  such  a  bigness,  that  ten  or  a  dozen  men  of  the 
degenerate  days  m  which  Homer  Hved  could  not  hft 
such  a  one.  Ever  since  his  time,  things  have  been 
growing  worse  and  worse,  so  that  now  I  dare  say,  the 
human  race,  compared  to  w^hat  it  was  during  the  seige 
of  Troy,  is  not  much  more  than  a  noble  army  of 
gnats.  Nothing  is  as  it  was  ;  the  people  grow  worse 
and  worse,  generation  after  generation,  and  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  earth  become  more  and  more  attenuated, 
till  at  length  there  will  be  nothing  left  of  them  —  they 
will  become  gradually  imdsible.  The  sun  does  not 
shine  so  brightly  as  it  used  to,  and  the  seasons  — 
every  body  says  they  are  changed.  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  truth  in  this  —  there  is  no  denying  it.  But 
the  worst  of  this  matter  is,  that  there  is  too  much 
truth  in  it.  The  evidence  of  the  mutation  of  the 
seasons  from  youth  to  manhood  is  so  superabundant, 
that  by  proving  too  much,  it  proves  nothing. 

Between  the  years  1740  and  1750,  Horace  Walpole 
wrote  some  letters,  which  have  since  been  printed 
and  published.  I  have  not  a  copy  now  at  hand  to 
refer  to  ;  but  I  distinctly  remember  reading  in  them  a 
lamentation  on  the  change  of  the  seasons.  The  Avinter 
complains  that  on  IMidsummer  day  he  is  writing  by 
the  fire-side  ;  and  he  pettishly  says,  "  We  have  now 
no  summer  in  this  country  but  what  we  get  from  New- 
castle ;  "  and  presently  after  he  adds,  that  it  was  not 
so  when  he  was  young.  Now  I  think  when  Horace 
Walpole  was  young,  Dean  Swift  was  old ;   and  yet 


BETTER     DAYS.  137 

Dean  makes  the  same  complaint.  Still  more  curious- 
ly, the  poet  Cowper,  writing  about  forty  years  after 
Horace  Walpole,  makes  the  same  complaint,  lamenting 
that  neither  winters  nor  summers  were  such  as  they 
used  to  be.  Those  who  are  now  living,  who  were 
children  when  Cowper  complained  that  the  summers 
were  not  so  hot,  nor  the  winters  so  cold  as  they 
used  to  be,  do  now  make  the  same  complaint  as  he 
did  then. 

In  the  year  1818,  the  summer  was  remarkably  fine 
and  dry,  and  all  the  people  began  to  cry  out  on  the 
beauty  of  what  they  called  an  old  fashioned  summer. 
To  be  sure  it  was  old  fashioned  summer  ;  so  are  all 
summers  old  fashioned  summers.  There  is  a  passage 
in  Tacitus,  which  describes  the  climate  of  this  country 
just  as  it  might  be  described  now.  I  could  quote 
latin  ;  but  as  I  have  no  particular  end  to  answer  in 
looking  learned,  I  make  the  extracts  from  Dr.  Allken's 
translation  of  the  life  of  Agricola.  "  The  sky  in  this 
country  is  deformed  by  clouds  and  frequent  rains,  but 
the  cold  is  never  extremely  rigorous.  The  soil, 
though  improper  for  the  olive  and  vine,  and  other  pro- 
ductions of  warmer  climates,  is  fertile  and  suitable 
for  corn.  Growth  is  quick,  but  maturation  slow,  both 
from  the  same  cause,  the  great  humidity  of  the  ground 
and  atmosphere."  There,  now,  can  any  thing  be 
plainer  than  that  ?  And  yet  we  talk  about  the 
changes  of  the  seasons  as  if  the  sun  was  worn  out, 
and  all  things  were  going  wrong.  There  always  have 
11* 


138  friendship's  gift. 

been  occasionally  very  hot  summers,  and  occasionally 
very  cold  winters.  Nineteen  years  ago,  there  was  a 
fair  on  the  Thames.  That  winter  was  not  the  rule,  it 
was  the  exception.  Whatever  changes  there  is,  is  in 
ourselves.  Reader,  you  are  acquainted  with  persons 
of  thirty,  forty,  fifty,  sixty,  seventy,  and  perhaps 
eighty  years  of  age.  Ask  them  all  if  the  seasons 
have  not  changed  since  they  were  young,  though  the 
respective  periods  of  their  youth  were  at  several 
intervals,  you  will  find  them  all  in  the  same  story. 

It  is  precisely  the  same  with  regard  to  manners. 
The  deterioration  of  manners  we  do  not  perceive  so 
soon  as  we  do  the  changes  of  the  seasons.  We  take 
our  impressions  of  the  seasons  at  about  the  age  of 
ten,  and  from  that  to  fifteen  ;  but  our  impressions  of 
manners  we  take  at  our  first  entrance  into  the  world. 
All  changes  that  liave  taken  place  since  that  time  we 
reo-ard  as  innovations  —  as  a  kind  of  deflexion  from 
the  standard  of  propriety.  AVhatever  was  the  fashion 
when  we  first  came  to  years  of  discretion,  was  ra- 
tional ;  whatever  had  then  ceased  to  be  the  fashion, 
was  anticipated,  formal  and  ridiculous  ;  and  what  has 
come  into  the  fashion  since  then,  is  all  a  change  for 
the  worse  —  a  departure  from  propriety  and  reason, 
altogether  new  fangled.  The  w^ord  "  new  fangled  "  is 
a  charming  word  ;  it  expresses  such  a  pleasant  pun- 
gency of  satire,  and  implies  a  delighted  assumption 
of  wisdom  on  the  part  of  him  who  uses  it.  The  mind 
by  time  acquires  a  kind  of  rigidity  ;  it  does  not  like 


BETTER    DAYS.  139 

to  be  put  out  of  shape  or  out  of  place  ;  —  change 
disturbs  it  and  makes  it  angry.  Then  it  looks  back 
to  better  days,  Avhen  none  of  the  villainous  innovations 
were  known,  which  are  now  so  prevalent  in  every 
thing.  I  am  glad  that  I  am  neither  gas  nor  steam, 
for  it  would  break  my  heart  to  be  abused  as  they 
have  been. 

But  of  all  the  regrets  of  the  better  days  that  are 
gone  by,  none  are  more  pathetic  than  the  lamentations 
for  the  loss  of  all  our  great  men.  What  marvellously 
great  men  did  live  in  the  days  that  are  past !  This, 
of  course,  says  the  triumphant  croaker,  must  be  ad- 
mitted. There  is  no  denying  that  Shakspeare,  Milton, 
Pope,  Scott,  Byron,  Pitt,  Fox,  Canning,  Sheridan,  are 
all  gone,  and  have  not  left  their  likenesses  behind.  It 
is  no  easy  matter  to  conceive  any  human  being  more 
proud  and  happy  than  a  triumphant  croaker.  If  you 
stop  a  man  in  the  midst  of  his  lamentation  and  prove 
to  him,  as  clear  as  light,  that  he  has  no  good  ground 
for  complaint,  you  seem  to  inflict  an  injury  upon  him  ; 
but  if  he  can  repel  your  arguments,  and  establish  his 
own  growling  position  beyond  all  question,  he  is  far 
happier  than  if  he  had  never  had  any  cause  of  com- 
plaint. Is  there,  says  he,  a  man  now  living  who  can 
write  as  Shakspeare  wrote  ?  Very  likely  there  is 
not ;  but  if  there  were,  he  would  be  quite  a  superflui- 
ty ;  we  have  as  much  Shakspeare  as  we  want  —  and 
so  of  all  the  rest. 

The  cause  of  his  style  of  reproaching  the  present 


140  friendship's  gift. 

by  referring  to  the  past,  is  to  be  found  in  the  loud 
lamentations,  which  mark  the  departure  of  great  men 
from  the  sublunary  scene.  When  a  distinguished 
man  dies,  the  pubhc  feels  a  loss.  Funeral,  elegy, 
monument,  epitaph,  biography,  all  make  the  loss  more 
talked  about.  But  when  a  great  genius  is  born  into 
the  world,  there  is  no  talk  about  it.  We  notice  the 
great  trees  that  are  cut  down,  but  we  regard  not  the 
saplings  that  are  springing  up  in  their  place.  Thus 
we  think  that  we  live  in  sad,  degenerate  days,  and 
thus  we  get  into  the  habit  of  looking  upon  great  men 
as  good  for  nothing  till  they  are  dead.  In  the  book 
of  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon,  it  is  said,  that  a  living 
dog  is  better  than  a  dead  lion.  Pephaps  it  may  be  ; 
but  we  do  not  in  general  seem  to  hold  this  doctrine ; 
indeed,  we  regard  the  hving  as  dogs,  and  the  dead  as 
lions. 

I  think  another  cause  of  our  looking  back  on  the 
past  as  on  better  days,  may  be  found  in  the  fact  that 
we  are  all  growing  older.  The  world  is  not  half  so 
pretty  and  wonderful  to  us  now  as  it  was  when  we 
were  young.  To  a  boy,  a  schoolmaster  is  often  an 
awful  and  a  great  personage  ;  he  is  regarded  with 
admiration,  as  a  miracle  of  majesty,  and  a  paragon 
of  knowledge.  Old  Busby  knew  that,  when  he  kept 
his  hat  on  in  the  presence  of  royalty  in  his  own  school 
room.  But  what  a  different  idea  of  schoolmasters  we 
acquire  when  we  are  grown  up  to  man's  estate  !  We 
measure  all  things  by  the  standard  of  our  own  feelings ; 


BETTER    DAYS.  141 

we  have  no  other  rule  to  go  by  ;  and  if  we  feel  our- 
selves growing  old  and  wearing  out,  we  think  that  the 
world  is  growing  old  and  wearing  out ;  and  if  our 
eyes  grow  dim,  we  think  that  the  sun  shines  more 
feebly  than  he  was  wont  to  do ;  and  if  our  feelings 
grow  obtuse,  we  fancy  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
worth  caring  for  ;  and  if  we  go  to  the  scenes  of  our 
boyish  hoHdays,  and  if  our  boyish  feelings  do  not 
return  to  us — we  fancy  that  the  place  is  sadly  alter- 
ed. I  remember  hearing  one  of  the  greatest  puppies 
that  ever  lived  complain  of  the  conceit  and  affectation 
of  young  men  of  the  present  generation,  and  say, 
"  It  was  not  so  when  I  was  young." 


LEAVING  HOME. 


ETONIAN. 


Sweet  spot !  1  leave  thee  with  an  aching  heart, 
As  down  the  stream  my  boat  glides  smoothly  on ; 

With  thee,  as  if  I  were  a  swain,  I  part, 
And  thou  the  maiden  that  I  doated  on. 

I  ne'er  shall  view  yon  woody  glen  again  ; 

That  lowly  church,  calm  promiser  of  rest; 
Yon  white  cots,  free  from  riches  and  from  pain, 

Fantastic  gems  upon  the  mountain's  breast. 

Fast,  fast,  thou'rt  fading  from  my  longing  sight; 

The  next  bold  turn,  and  thou  art  gone  for  aye, — 
A  dream's  bright  remnant  on  a  summer  night  — 

The  faint  remembrance  of  a  love  gone  by. 

Farewell!  and  if  Fate's  distant  unknown  page 
Doom  me  to  wreck  on  Passion's  angry  sea, 

I'll  leave  Philosophy  to  reasoning  age. 

And  charm  the  tempest  with  a  thought  on  thee. 


ATTENDING    AUCTIONS. 


BY    M.    M.    NOAH. 

This  is  the  season  of  the  year,  preparatory  to  the  first 
of  May,  when  families  sell  their  household  furniture, 
either  to  purchase  a  new  stock,  or  remove  to  the  coun- 
try, and  these  furniture  auctions  are  attended  by 
crowds  of  ladies.  It  is  astonishing  to  witness  the 
avidity  with  which  the  papers  are  examined  for  the 
purpose  of  discovering  auction  notices,  and  the  bustle 
of  early  dress  and  preparation  to  visit  the  house  from 
which  the  red  flag  is  displayed.  A  continual  current 
sets  towards  the  mansion,  particularly  if  the  furniture 
is  elegant  and  the  owner  fashionable  ;  and  in  this 
squeze  we  shall  find  persons  of  all  characters  and  pur- 
suits —  some  to  replenish  their  stock  —  others  to  sell 
again  —  and  most  for  their  curiosity.  A  celebrated 
bachelor,  who  lately  sold  out,  was  honored  with  an 
immense  party  of  young  ladies,  who  came  to  pry  into 
the  comforts  and  mysteries  of  "  single  blessedness," 
in  such  crowds,  that  the  staircases,  antechambers,  and 
all  the  rooms  were  jammed  as  close  as  a  bag  of  cotton. 


144  friendship's  gift. 

There  were  shrieking  and  fainting,  and  every  thing 
sold  for  twenty  per  cent,  above  its  value,  from  a  spirit 
of  competition,  and  a  want  of  practical  knowledge; 
and  this  curiosity,  we  are  bound  to  say,  is  carried  to 
such  an  extreme,  that  even  interdicted  places,  where 
rich  furniture  is  to  be  sold,  is  incontinently  visited  by 
the  ladies.  Now,  we  like  enterprise  and  competition, 
when  judiciously  directed  ;  but  it  is  quite  amusing  to 
witness  some  of  the  scenes,  together  with  the  ingenu- 
ity of  the  auctioneer,  who,  if  clever,  makes  the  most 
of  these  jarring  conflicts.  "  That  beautiful  chimney 
glass,  eighty  inches  by  forty  —  a  splendid  size  —  very 
few  to  be  had  —  thank  ye  for  a  bid,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men." "  Fifty  dollars."  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Sightly,  fifty 
dollars  ?  one  hundred  and  fifty  you  mean  ?  why  look 
at  it ;  a  little  of  the  silver  has  run,  but  that's  nothing 

—  well,  fifty  to  begin  with  —  sixty  —  seventy  —  eigh- 
ty—  ninety  —  don't  bid  against  yourself,  Mrs.  Jewel 

—  no  one  bids  more  ?  "  "  Thank  ye  ma'am  —  going 
for  one  hundred."  "  She  shan't  have  it,"  said  Miss 
Plumtree,  in  a  loud  whisper  to  her  mother  —  "  let's 
go  to  ten  more."  "  One  hundred  and  ten  —  only  half 
its  value."  "  Mr.  iVuctioneer,  can  that  hole  in  the 
silver  be  mended  ?"  "Oh  yes,  ma'am,  for  a  trifle  — 
going  at  one  hundred  and  ten  —  going,  gone  ;  'tis 
yours,  ma'm."  The  glass  might  have  been  worth 
eighty  dollai^s.  "  Now  that  suit  of  magnificent  cur- 
tains, crimson  velvet  with  gold  lace  —  cost  one  thou- 
sand dollars  at  Paris  —  were  made  for  the  duchess  of 


ATTENDING   AUCTIONS.  146 

Poomstock,  by  the  celebrated  upholsterer,  Monsieur 
Fringpau  —  I  '11  thank  you  for  a  bid,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men —  how  much  shall  I  say  ?"  "  Are  you  sure,  Mr. 
Auctioneer,  that  they  once  belonged  to  her  grace,  the 
duchess?"  "  Oh,  quite  sure  ma'am — have  the  cer- 
tificate of  Mr.  Swartwout,  the  collector."  "  Well, 
then,  say  seven  hundred  dollars  "  "  Oh,  my  dear 
ma'am,  such  a  bid  for  such  a  magnificent  affair,  got 
up  by  one  of  the  royal  upholsterers  —  well,  seven  hun- 
dred dollars  —  only  seven  hundred  dollars  bid  —  pray 
look  at  them,  Mrs.  Courtly,  you  won't  let  them  go  for 
that  price  ?"  "  No,  certainly  not,  one  hundred  dol- 
lars more."  "  Thank  ye  ma'am,  I  know  your  taste. 
Eight  hundred  dollars  —  eight  hundred  and  fifty  —  not 
yet  half  the  price  —  eight  hundred  and  fifty-five  ;  I  '11 
take  a  five  bid  now  —  eight  hundred  and  sixty,  eight 
hundred  and  sixty-five  ;  nobody  bids  more  ;  going,  going 
— last  call.  Such  a  splendid  article  from  the  palace 
of  Montmorency,  going  for  eighthundred  and  sixty-five 
dollars,  can't  help  it  —  great  sacrifice — going — 
gone."  Larry  Ackerman,  or  the  Fyfes,  or  any  of  the 
New  York  upholsterers,  would  have  knocked  up  a  con- 
cern equally  splendid  for  sLx  hundred  dollars.  ''  Now 
for  the  paintings.  A  beautiful  original  of  Raphael  — 
The  child  eating  citron  —  magnificent."  "  Are  you 
certain  it  is  a  Raphael?  "  says  a  gentleman  m  specs. 
"  Oh,  positively,  sir ;  we  have  the  certificate  from 
Brusells,  from  Mynheer  Vonder  Donk  Sehilmpennick." 
"  That's  all  right  sir,  I  '11  bid  you  one  hundred  dollars 
12 


146  friendship's  gift. 

for  it."  "  Only  one  hundred  dollars  bid  for  Raphael, 
inimitable  coloring,  divinely  conceived,  and  only  one 
hundred  dollars — one  hundred  and  twenty,  thirty, 
forty,  fifty  —  that's  brisk ;  go  on,  sir,  we  have 
only  one  third  yet  —  sixty,  seventy,  two  hundred  ; 
going  at  two  hundred  dollars  — going,  gone  ;  Mr. 
Capias.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Capias  ;  men  of  taste  know 
what  a  good  thing  is."  It  was  sold  at  the  Arcade 
baths  last  week  for  forty  two  dollars  ;  but  no  matter. 
Thus  they  go  on,  pushing,  squeezing,  jostling  each 
other  —  rumpling  the  ladies'  ruffs,  over-bidding,  get- 
ting excited  by  competition,  buying  things  not  wanted, 
and  paying  far  above  their  value  ;  and  at  three,  they 
all  go  home  to  dinner,  puffing,  jaded  and  fatigued,  and 
the  next  morning  they  are  up  bright  and  early  for  the 
new  campaign* 


THE  EYE. 


ANONYMOUS. 


What  is  the  little  lurking  spell 

That  hovers  round  the  eye  ? 
Without  a  voice,  a  word  can  tell 

The  feelings  as  they  fly. 

When  tearless  —  it  can  speak  of  woe  ; 

When  weeping  —  still  the  same  ; 
Or  in  a  moment  catch  the  glow 

Of  thoughts  without  a  name. 

Can  beam  with  pity  on  the  poor  — 

With  anger  on  the  proud 
Can  tell  that  it  will  much  endure  — 

Or  flash  upon  the  crowd! 

Now  brightly  raised,  or  now  depressed 
With  every  shade  of  feeling  — 

It  is  the  mirror  of  the  breast  — 
The  thought,  the  soul  revealing ! 

O  !  tones  are  false  —  and  words  are  weak 

The  tutored  slaves  at  call  — 
The  eye  —  the  eye  alone  can  speak  — 

Unfettered  —  tell  us  all ! 


PAUL  ANDERSON'S  LUCK. 


ANONYMOUS. 


I  WAS  shocked,  a  few  days  since,  on  opening  a  south- 
ern newspaper  to  notice,  among  the  sudden  casualties, 
the  death  of  my  old  friend,  Paul  Anderson.  Poor 
Paul !  His  life  was  anything  but  a  happy  one  ;  and 
it  is  well,  perhaps,  that  he  is  removed  from  the  trials 
and  perplexities  which  always  clustered  about  his  path- 
way. He  terminated  his  existence  by  leaping  from  a 
steamboat  bound  up  the  Mississippi,  and  obstinately 
refused  to  avail  himself  of  the  assistance  which  might 
have  saved  his  life. 

There  are  people  let  into  the  world,  now  and  then, 
who,  struggle  as  they  may,  can  never,  as  it  is  called, 
get  ahead.  Everything  unlucky  attends  their  down- 
sittings  and  their  up-risings.  They  invest,  but  the 
dividends  are  not  forthcoming.  They  buy  and  sell, 
but  to  no  purpose.  They  dig  and  sow,  but  the  har- 
vest is  never  realized.  Paul  Anderson  belonged  to 
this  class  of  unfortunates.  His  father  was  quite  a 
different   personage.     He   knew  what  it   was   to  lie 


PAUL  Anderson's  luck.  "  149 

down  at  night  with  the  keys  under  his  pillow,  which 
every  morning  unlocked  wealth  sufficient  to  satisfy 
the  most  sordid  avarice.  But  he  died  in  a  fit  of  anger 
with  his  only  son,  and  left  the  bulk  of  his  great  for- 
tune to  a  far  distant  seminary,  whose  benevolent 
object  for  educating  indigent  students  was  defeated,  a 
few  years  after,  by  the  defalcation  of  a  pious  profes- 
sor, who  speculated  in  western  lands.  Poor  Paul  ! 
But  I  am  not  writing  history,  but  merely  relating  an 
anecdote  illustrative  of  my  remark,  that  some  men 
are  born  to  ill  luck. 

One  day  last  summer,  as  we  were  walking  together 
in  the  upper  mall  of  our  beautiful  Common,  Paul 
suddenly  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter  ;  for,  in  spite  of 
his  troubles,  he  had  a  smile  and  a  joke  always  ready. 
On  my  inquiring  the  cause  of  his  sudden  ebullition  of 
jollity,  he  asked  if  I  had  ever  heard  of  his  experience 
in  shop-keeping. 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  my  friend,  but  should  like,  above 
all  things,  to  hear  you  relate  them." 

"  They  are  brief  as  woman's  love,"  he  replied  sor- 
rowfully ;  "  and,  if  you  have  a  mind  to  hear  them, 
you  shall ;  but  do  n't  laugh." 

I  promised  to  keep  a  serious  face,  and  he  began  as 
follows : 

"  Two  years  ago  I  was  casting  about  for  some  kind 

of  business,   whereby  I  might  make  both  ends  meet 

and  five  respectably,  when  all  at  once,  it  occurred  to 

me  that  my  friends.  Welt   and  Company,  wholesale 

12* 


150 


dealers  in  the  boot  and  shoe  business,  would,  perhaps, 
lend  a  helping  hand  to  a  poor  fellow,  and  put  me  in 
the  way  of  good  luck.  They  consented,  after  many 
preliminaries,  to  give  me  on  commission  a  small  as- 
sortment of  goods  in  their  line,  and  recommended  me 
to  take  a  store  in  some  fashionable  part  of  the  city. 
After  a  deal  of  perplexity,  I  succeeded  in  renting  a 
showy  establishment  with  immense  windows,  the 
panes  of  which,  the  owner  assured  me,  cost  forty 
dollars  each  to  import.  I  worked  like  a  slave  till 
my  shop  was  ready.  A  splendid  sign,  for  which  I 
ran  in  debt,  glittered  above  the  door.  '  Paul  Ander- 
son, Boot  and  Shoe  Store,'  looked  down  beseechingly 
into  everybody's  face.  It  spoke  a  language  which 
none  could  mistake.  Well,  on  the  morning  of  the 
fourth  of  July,  at  five  o'clock  precisely,  the  large 
windows,  filled  with  men's  thick  and  children's  thin 
trotter-covers,  were  displayed  for  the  first  time  to  the 
public.  A  newsboy,  going  to  get  his  papers,  was  the 
first  to  spy  out  the  new  establishment,  and  bawled  out, 
as  he  went  along,  '  Aul  Panderson,  Shoot  and  Boo 
Store.  Here's  a  go  ! '  Oh,  how  I  wanted  to  strangle 
him ! 

"  I  had  engaged  the  services  of  a  small,  red-haired 
urchin,  from  the  country,  keen  as  a  razor,  and,  alto- 
gether, a  very  desirable  youth  behind  the  counter.  I 
drilled  him  a  whole  hour,  myself  playing  the  purchas- 
er, over  a  pair  of  coAvhide  boots.  I  tried  to  beat  him 
down,  and  haggled  like  a  Jew  for  the  abatement  of  a 


PAUL  Anderson's  luck.  151 

ninepence ;  but  lie  was  firm  and  unalterably  fixed  to 
the  first  price.  I  thought  he  would  do,  and  told  him 
to  serve  me  faithfully,  and  I  would  make  a  man  of 
him.  His  eye  glistened  with  gratitude,  and  I  gave 
him  a  shilling  to  expend  in  articles  most  congenial  to 
his  taste.  I  had  ever  a  fondness  for  military  display, 
and,  as  it  was  quite  early,  I  determined  to  leave  the 
shop  for  a  few  minutes  and  take  a  look  at  the  Common. 
After  again  charging  Thomas  to  be  careful  and 
look  out  for  my  interest,  I  left  in  haste,  saw  all 
in  ten  minutes,  and  got  back  again  quite  out  of 
breath.  I  forgot  to  mention  that  before  going  away 
I  placed  in  the  counter-drawer  small  bills  to  the 
amount  of  ten  dollars,  all  I  had  in  my  pocket  or  any 
where  else.  This  money  I  presumed  would  be  wanted 
for  change.  Mark  the  sequel.  On  my  arrival  at 
the  store,  Thomas  rushed  to  meet  me  on  the  side- 
walk, with  a  cry  of  delight  that  he  had  made  a  sale 
during  my  absence.  '  Yes,'  said  he,  '  I've  sold  a  pair 
of  shoes  for  two  dollars,  and  here  is  a  'leven  dollar 
bill  he  gave  me.  I  handed  him  back  nine  dollars  — 
nine  and  two  are  'leven  —  and  that  makes  it  jist  right.' 
An  eleven  dollar  bill !  Death  and  destruction  !  I 
seized  the  note.  It  was  a  counterfeit  two,  with  two 
figure  ones  in  the  corner,  which  my  sharp  salesman 
had  mistaken  for  an  eleven.  The  wretch  !  He  had 
not  only  sacrificed  a  pair  of  shoes,  but  nine  good 
dollars  were  likewise  thrown  away.  I  was  about  to 
demolish  the  urchin  as  I  had  done  the  hateful  bill, 


152  friendship's  gift. 

"wlien  a  decent  looking  individual  entered,  and  asked 
for  boots  well  made  and  warranted  to  wear  well.  I 
forgot  my  misfortune  while  fitting  him  to  a  first  rate 
pair.  They  sat  beautifully.  I  had  never  seen  a  bet- 
ter fit.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  pay  me  over  a  V, 
he  put  his  hand  to  his  head  and  roared  out,  '  Where 
is  my  little  dog  ? '  I  told  him  I  had  not  noticed  the 
ingress  of  such  a  quadruped,  but  made  search  imme- 
diately for  the  animal  under  the  counter,  behind  the 
boxes,  everywhere,  but  he  was  not  to  be  found.  The 
man  looked  discomfitted,  and  said  he  would  look  outside 
a  moment.  Fool-hke,  I  let  him  go  with  my  five-dollar 
boots  on.  Alas !  nor  man,  nor  boots,  nor  little  dog 
returned  again  !  The  fellow  decamped,  and  left  me 
nothing  but  a  pair  of  old  slippers,  decayed  and  very 
unpleasant  looking  withal.  I  flew  rovmd  like  a  mad- 
man, and  rushed  out  to  shut  up  the  shop.  Foaming 
with  rage,  I  seized  a  shutter,  my  foot  slipped,  and 
away  it  went,  right  through  a  forty-dollar  pain  of  im- 
ported glass.  I  closed  up  business  the  next  day,  and 
gave  the  lad  a  note  to  his  mother  to  this  efiect,  that 
her  son  was  a  smart  boy,  very  ;  but  would  not  answer 
for  my  business." 


.^^ea^. 


PRAYERS  AT  SEA. 


BY   MRS.    SIGOURNEY. 

Prayer  may  be  sweet,  in  cottage  homes 
Where  sire  and  child  devoutly  kneel, 

While  through  the  open  casement  nigh 
The  vernal  blossoms  fragrant  steal. 

Prayer  may  be  sweet,  in  stately  halls. 
Where  heart  with  kindred  heart  is  blent, 

And  upward  to  the  Eternal  Throne 
The  hymn  of  praise  melodious  sent. 

But  he,  who  fain  would  know  how  ^t'arm 
The  soul's  appeal  to  God  may  be, 

From  friends  and  native  lands  should  turn, 
A  wanderer  on  the  faithless  sea :  — 

Should  hear  its  deep,  imploring  tone 

Rise  heavenward  o'er  the  foaming  surge, 

When  billows  toss  the  fragile  bark. 
And  fearful  blasts  the  conflict  urge. 

Naught,  naught  around,  but  waves  and  skies, 
No  refuge  where  the  foot  may  flea. 

How  will  he  cast,  O,  Rock  Divine  ! 
The  anchor  of  his  hope  in  Thee. 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 


THEODORE    S.  FAY. 

Can  there  be  two  things  more  unlike  than  the  city 
and  country  ?  In  the  first,  you  have  only  air,  light,  and 
a  piece  of  blue  sky  stretching  above  the  compact  rows 
of  brick  walls,  to  remind  you  of  the  original  appear- 
ance of  our  planet.  The  very  people  seem  animals 
of  a  different  species  as  they  push  by,  or  peradventure 
almost  run  over  you  ui  the  hurry  of  business.  I  have 
sometimes  thought  that  real  civility  (I  mean  among 
strangers)  decreased  exactly  in  proportion  to  your 
approach  to  the  metropolis.  Away  off  in  some  obscure 
and  quiet  country  village,  you  receive  a  polite  saluta- 
tion from  every  passenger  ;  and  troops  of  little  girls 
and  boys  returning  from  school,  address  you  with 
bows  and  courtesies  of  profound  respect ;  but  as  you 
travel  nearer  the  mighty  Babel,  you  perceive  a  dimin- 
ution of  that  pleasing  tribute,  till  at  length  you  reach 
the  thronged  streets,  and,  like  a  drop  in  the  sea,  are 
melted  into  the  general  mass,  where  much  care  is 
requisite  to  preserve  your  neck  and  your  pocket  book, 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY.  155 

two  articles,  which  to  a  man  of  business,  as  society  is 
constructed,  are  of  about  eriual  importance.  Nature 
is  sadly  metamorphosed  in  town.  Only  think  that  the 
tender  grass  and  flower  bushes  have  been  torn  away 
to  make  room  for  these  broad,  well  worn  flag  stones. 
Perhaps  on  this  very  spot  once  stood  a  grove  of 
venerable  trees,  and  a  torrent  poured  its  silvery  and 
flashing  waters  on  toward  the  river ;  and,  in  olden 
times,  perchance  the  spotted  panther  hath  paused  to 
drink ;  or  the  eagle,  or  the  wild  and  beauteous  deer 
hath  here  in  a  depth  of  loneliness,  suited  to  its  timid 
spirit,  regarded  his  branching  antlers  in  the  muTor 
stream ;  and  the  dangerous  snake  hath  glided  along 
unmolested,  or  basked  him  in  the  noontide  sun.  And 
what  have  we  now  ?  A  row  of  the  three  story  brick 
houses,  a  grocery  store,  a  lottery  office,  a  tavern ; 
signs  too,  St.  Croix  rum  and  sugar ;  fashionable  hat 
store  ;  commissioner  to  take  the  acknowledgment  of 
deeds ;  John  Thompson,  shoemaker ;  Obadiah  Todd, 
counsellor  at  law  ;  and  crowds  of  Presbyterians  and 
Episcopahans,  Adamsmen  and  Jacksonmen,  pouring 
along  like  the  tide  of  the  pure  and  playful  brook, 
above  whose  once  music-breatliing  channel  their  shuf- 
fling foot  steps  fall.  If  we  could  know  their  history  ! 
Yonder  is  a  noble  looking  gentleman.  With  what 
stateliness  he  moves  along !  I  should  esteem  him  a 
poet  —  an  immortal  poet.  His  eye  is  full  of  the  fii-e 
of  genius,  and  he  treads  as  if  he  would  disdain  to  save 
his  life  by  means  of  a  dishonorable  action.     Alas,  for 


156  friendship's  gift. 

Lavater !  and  alas,  for  human  nature.  He  is  a  poor 
devil  of  a  fellow  who  hves  by  gambling.  He  has  no 
more  idea  of  poetry  than  his  dog,  and  would  betray 
his  friend  for  five  dollars.  But  take  care,  or  you  will 
run  over  that  little,  insignificant,  shabby  man  at  your 
right.  Your  eye  has  passed  him  carelessly.  Look 
again.  He  is  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  men.  The 
philosopher  —  the  orator  —  the  writer.  He  has  in 
him  the  wonderful  power  to  wake  m  you  the  highest 
feelings.  He  sheds  a  flood  of  light  upon  every  sub- 
ject which  he  touches  —  he  could  thrill  you  with  his 
fervid  and  glowing  eloquence,  and  force  every  chord 
of  your  soul  to  vibrate ;  and  when  he  would  speak, 
multitudes  of  the  learned  and  gi-eat  and  beautiful 
flock  to  Hsten.  Yonder  is  a  crowd  pressing  together 
to  enjoy  the  horror  and  anguish  of  that  wretched  wo- 
man. They  say  that  she  has  committed  a  crime. 
She  has  been  ground  down  by  poverty  —  perhaps  by 
hunger,  and  her  sacreligious  hand  has  snatched  some- 
thing which  the  law  forbade.  The  people  swear,  and 
curse,  and  fight,  to  get  near  enough  to  witness  her 
desperate  struggles  ;  but  two  well  fed,  lusty  constables 
have  dragged  her  feeble  form  towards  a  cart  in  tri- 
umph. As  the  loud  laughter  announces  her  defeat, 
an  ashy  paleness  overspreads  her  face  —  her  head 
falls  back  —  miserable  creature  —  she  is  dead  !* 
I  thought  of  these  tilings  as  I  wandered  with  a 

'*A  real  incident. 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY.  157 

party  of  agreeable  friends  along  a  retired  country 
road,  which  wound  its  way  among  gentle  undulations, 
occasionally  shaded  by  rich  cool  forests.  Here  was  a 
contrast  to  the  hub-bub  of  the  town.  AYe  stopped 
upon  the  old  boards  of  a  rough  bridge  (just  such  a 
romantic  affair  as  one  sees  in  the  theatre)  to  admire 
the  scenery  —  look  into  the  brook  —  watch  the  fishes 
—  and  the  turn  of  the  shining  water  as  it  fell  over  a 
little  bed  of  stones.  At  this  crisis,  a  great  green 
bull  frog,  whether  from  vanity  —  for  to  say  the  truth, 
he  was  a  fine,  plump,  gentlemanly  looking  fellow  —  or 
whether  the  unfriendly  fates,  sporting  with  frogs  as  well 
as  men,  had  led  him  unconscious  to  the  identical  spot 
of  all  the  winding  stream  towards  which  our  several 
prying  eyes  were  directed,  it  is  not  for  me  to  assert ; 
but  it  is  very  certain  that  such  an  individual  did  issue 
forth  from  some  nameless  haunt  or  other,  better  known 
to  himself  than  me,  and,  with  a  gentle  and  brief  ex- 
clamation, expressive  of  content,  as  if  the  world  went 
well  with  him,  but  rather  difficult  to  translate  into 
English,  did  place  himself  in  a  station,  which,  as  the 
result  will  show,  was  a  little  too  conspicuous.  There 
he  sat,  with  his  great  round  eyes  started  both  sides 
out  of  his  head,  and  his  countenance  —  which  to  his 
fellow  frogs  might  have  been  a  very  fine  one  —  ex- 
pressive of  an  idea  that  he  had  got  into  a  right 
comfortable  situation.  Whether  he  was  young  and 
enthusiastic,  and,  like  ourselves,  had  come  out  to  en- 
joy the  beauties  of  nature,  or  whether  he  was  an  old 
13 


158  friendship's  gift. 

and  experienced  member  of  tlie  community,  or,  as 
the  newspapers  express  it,  "  an  aged  and  respectable 
citizen,"  silently  meditating  upon  the  affairs  of  his 
watery  world,  we  had  no  method  of  ascertaining. 
Many  little  stones,  however,  were  thrown  down  at 
him,  with  various  degrees  of  skill  and  success,  one  of 
which,  I  regret  to  state,  hit  him  on  the  head,  whereat 
he  discovered  evident  signs  of  dissatisfaction,  and 
abandoning  our  society  with  some  abruptness,  plung- 
ed down  to  the  bottom  among  the  sand  and  sedges, 
ruminating,  probably,  in  no  very  pleasant  mood,  upon 
this  additional  instance  of  the  instability  of  human 
affairs. 

Blackberries  grew  in  abundance  by  the  road  side, 
which  we  were  not  particularly  averse  to  appropriate 
to  the  purpose  for  which  I  presume  they  were  placed 
there  ;  and,  merry  as  the  birds  which  sometimes  flit- 
ted across  our  path,  we  wandered  as  fancy  led  over 
these  summer  scenes  — by  the  bay,  through  the  woods, 
over  fences,  and  down  valleys ;  breakmg  the  silence 
of  the  green  forest,  and  startling  its  timid  and  various 
inhabitants  with  the  unaccustomed  sounds  of  frequent 
laughter. 

Time  has  a  fine  fashion  of  slipping  along  on  these 
occasions  :  we  are  surrounded  by  so  many  innumera- 
ble objects  which  attract  the  eye  and  captivate  the 
imagination.  The  bargahi-driving,  calculating,  slavish 
varlet,  whose  life  is  frittered  away  in  the  narrow  haunts 
of  a  great  city  in  petty  schemes  to  extort  money  from 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY.  159 

all  persons  and  on  all  occasions,  finds  among  these 
wnding  roads,  these  lofty  hills,  built  up  by  the  an- 
cient hand  of  nature,  and  sweetly  decorated  with  her 
playful  fancies,  pleasing  feelings  are  stirring  which 
have  been  long  idle  in  the  depths  of  his  character. 
The  world,  in  his  imagination,  shows  like  some  stu- 
pendous animal  pursuing  at  a  distance  its  uncouth 
gambols,  and  amid  these  overshadowing  brancehs  and 
ravines,  he  seems  to  find  a  shelter  from  its  vague  and 
unhappy  dangers. 


STANZAS  TO  A  LADY. 


BY   T.  K.  HERVEY,  ESQ. 

Across  the  waves  —  away  and  far^ 

My  spirit  turns  to  thee ; 

I  love  thee  as  men  love  a  star, 

The  brightest  where  a  thousand  are, 

Sadly  and  silently ; 

With  love  unstained  by  hopes  or  fears, 

Too  deep  for  words,  too  pure  for  tears  I 

My  heart  is  tutored  not  to  weep  ; 

Calm,  like  the  calm  of  even, 

Where  grief  lies  hushed,  but  not  asleep, 

Hallows  the  hours  I  love  to  keep 

For  only  thee  and  heaven  ; 

Too  far  and  fair  to  aid  the  birth 

Of  thoughts  that  have  a  taint  of  earth  I 

And  yet  the  days  for  ever  gone. 

When  thou  wert  as  a  bird, 

Living  'mid  flowers  and  leaves  alone, 

And  i^inging  in  so  soft  a  tone 

As  I  never  since  have  heard. 

Will  make  me  grieve  that  birds,  and  things 

So  beautiful,  have  ever  wings ! 


TO    A    LADY.  161 

And  there  are  hours  in  the  lonely  night, 

When  I  seem  to  hear  thy  calls, 

Faint  as  the  echoes  of  far  delight, 

And  dreamy  and  sad  as  the  sighing  flight 

Of  distant  waterfalls  ;  — 

And  then  my  vow  was  hard  to  keep, 

For  it  were  a  joy,  indeed,  to  weep ! 

For  I  feel,  as  men  feel  when  moonlight  falls 

Amid  old  cathedral  aisles  ; 

Or  the  wind  plays,  sadly,  along  the  walls 

Of  lonely  and  forsaken  halls, 

That  we  knew  in  their  day  of  smiles  ; 

Or  as  one  who  hears,  amid  foreign  flowers, 

A  tune  he  had  learned  in  his  mother's  bowers. 

But  I  may  not,  and  I  dare  not  weep. 

Lest  the  vision  pass  away, 

And  the  vigils  that  I  love  to  keep 

Be  broken  up,  by  the  fevered  sleep 

That  leaves  me  —  with  the  day  — 

Like  one  who  has  travelled  far  to  the  spot 

Where  his  home  should  be  —  and  finds  it  not ! 

Yet  then,  like  the  incense  of  many  flowers. 

Rise  pleasant  thoughts  to  me ; 

For  I  know,  from  thy  dwelling  in  eastern  bowers, 

That  thy  spirit  has  come,  in  those  silent  hours, 

To  meet  me  over  the  sea ; 

And  I  feel  in  my  soul,  the  fadeless  truth 

Of  her  whom  1  loved  in  early  youth. 

Like  hidden  streams,—  whose  quiet  tone 
Is  unheard  in  the  garish  day. 
That  utter  a  music  all  their  own, 
13* 


I 

i 
162  friendship's  gift.  I 

When  the  niglit-dew  falls,  and  the  lady  moon 

Looks  out  to  hear  them  play, — 

I  knew  not  half  thy  gentle  worth, 

Till  grief  drew  all  its  music  forth.  I 

I 
We  shall  not  meet  on  earth  again  !  — 

And  I  would  have  it  so; 

For,  they  tell  me  that  the  cloud  of  pain  ! 

Has  flung  its  shadows  o'er  thy  })rain,  j 

And  touched  thy  looks  with  woe  ;  I 

And  I  have  heard  that  stortn  and  shower 

Have  dimmed  thy  lovliness,  my  flower ! 

I  would  not  look  upon  thy  tears,  — 
For  I  have  thee  in  my  heart, 
Just  as  thou  wert,  in  those  lilessed  years 
When  we  were,  hoth,  too  young  for  fears 
That  we  should  ever  part; 
And  I  would  not  aught  should  mar  the  spell, 
The  picture  nursed  so  long  and  well ! 

I  love  to  think  on  thee,  as  one 

With  whom  the  strife  is  o'er; 

And  feel  that  I  am  journeying  on, 

Wasted,  and  weary,  and  alone. 

To  join  thee  on  that  shore 

Where  tliou  —  I  know  —  wilt  look  for  me, 

And  I,  for  ever,  be  with  thee  ! 


THE  CHINA  JUG. 


MISS    MITFORD. 


OxE  of  the  prettiest  rustic  dwellings  in  our  pretty 
neighborhood,  is  the  picturesque  farm-house  which 
stands  on  the  edge  of  Wokefield  Common,  so  complete- 
ly in  a  bottom,  that  the  passengers  who  traverse  the 
high  road  see  indeed  the  smoke  from  the  chimneys 
floating  like  a  vapor  over  the  woody  hill  which  forms 
the  back  ground,  but  cannot  even  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  roof,  so  high  does  the  turfy  common  rise  above  it ; 
whilst  so  steeply  does  the  ground  decline  to  the  door, 
that  it  seems  as  if  no  animal  less  accustomed  to  tread 
the  hill-side  than  a  goat  or  a  chamois  could  venture  to 
descend  the  narrow  foot-path  which  winds  round  the 
declivity,  and  forms  the  nearest  way  to  the  village. 
The  cart-track,  thridding  the  mazes  of  the  hills,  leads 
to  the  house  by  a  far  longer  but  very  beautiful  road ; 
the  smooth  fine  turf  of  the  Common  varied  by  large 
tufts  of  furze  and  broom  rising  in  an  abrupt  bank  on 
one  side,  on  the  other  a  narrow,  well  timbered  valley, 
bordered  by  hanging  woods,  and  terminated  by  a  large 


164  friendship's  gift. 

sheet  of  water,  close  beside  wliich  stands  the  farm,  a 
low,  irregular  cottage  snugly  thatched,  and  its  different 
out-buildings,  all  on  the  smallest  scale,  but  giving  the 
air  of  comfort  and  habitation  to  the  spot  that  nothing 
can  so  thoroughly  convey  as  an  Enghsh  barn-yard 
with  its  complement  of  cows,  pigs,  horses,  chickens, 
and  children. 

One  part  of  the  way  thither  is  singularly  beautiful. 
It  is  where  a  bright  and  sparkling  spring  has  formed 
itself  into  a  clear  pond  in  a  deep  broken  hollow  by 
the  road-side :  the  bank  all  around  covered  with  rich 
grass,  and  descending  in  unequal  terraces,  to  the  pool : 
whilst  on  every  side  around  it,  and  at  different  heights 
stand  ten  or  twelve  noble  elms,  casting  their  green 
shadows  mixed  with  the  light  clouds  and  the  blue 
summer  sky  on  the  calm  and  glassy  water,  and  giving, 
(especially,  when  the  evening  sun  lights  up  the  little 
grove,  causing  the  rugged  trunks  to  shine  hke  gold, 
and  the  pendent  leaves  to  glitter  like  the  burnished 
wings  of  the  rose  beetle,)  a  sort  of  pillard  and  colum- 
nar dignity  to  the  scene. 

Seldom,  too,  would  that  fountain,  famous  for  the 
purity  and  sweetness  of  its  waters,  be  without  some 
figure  suited  to  the  landscape  ;  child,  woman,  or  country 
girl,  leaning  from  the  plank  extended  over  the  spring, 
to  fill  her  pitcher,  or  returning  with  it,  supported  by  one 
arm  on  her  head,  recalling  all  classical  and  pastoral 
images,  the  beautiful  sculptures  of  Greece,  the  poetry 
of  Homer  and  of  Sophocles,  and  even  more  than  these, 


THE    CHINA    JUG.  165 

the  habits  of  oriental  life,  and  the  Rachels  and  Re- 
beccas of  Scripture. 

Seldom  would  that  spring  be  without  some  such 
fio-ure  ascending  the  turfj  steps  into  the  lane,  of  whom 
one  might  inquire  respecting  the  sequstered  farm- 
house, whose  rose-covered  porch  was  seen  so  prettily 
from  a  turn  in  the  road  ;  and  often  it  would  be  one  of 
the  farmer's  children  who  would  answer  you  ;  for  in 
spite  of  the  vicinity  of  the  great  pond,  all  the  water 
for  domestic  use  was  regularly  brought  from  the  Elmui 
Spring. 

Wokefield-Pond  farm  was  a  territory  of  some  thirty 
acres  ;  one  of  the  "  little  bargains,"  as  they  are  called, 
which  once  abounded,  but  are  now  seldom  fomid,  in 
Berkshire  ;  and  at  the  time  to  which  our  story  refers, 
that  is  to  say,  about  twenty  years  ago,  its  inhabitants 
were  amongst  the  poorest  and  most  industrious  people 
in  the  country. 

George  Hearing  was  the  only  son  of  a  rich  yeoman 
in  the  parish,  who  held  this  "  little  bargain  "  in  addi- 
tion to  the  manor  farm.  George  was  an  honest, 
thoughtless,  kind-hearted,  good-humored  lad,  quite  un- 
like his  father,  who,  shrewd,  hard,  and  money-getting, 
often  regretted  his  son's  deficiency  in  the  qualities  by 
which  he  had  risen  in  the  world,  and  reserved  all  his 
favor  and  affection  for  one  who  possessed  them  in  full 
perfection,  —  his  only  daughter,  Martha.  Martha  was 
a  dozen  years  older  than  her  brother,  with  a  large 
bony  figure,  a  visage  far  from  prepossessing,  a  harsh 


166  friendship's  gift. 

voice,  and  a  constitutional  scold,  which,  scrupulous 
in  her  cleanliness,  and  vigilant  in  her  economy, 
was  in  full  activity  all  day  long.  She  seemed  to  go 
about  the  house  for  no  other  purpose  than  that  of 
finding  fault,  maundering  now  at  one,  and  now  at 
another,  —  her  brother,  the  carters,  the  odd  boy,  the 
maid,  —  every  one,  in  short,  except  her  father,  who, 
connecting  the  ideas  of  scolding  and  good  housewifery, 
thought  that  he  gained,  or  at  least  saved  money  by 
the  constant  exercise  of  this  accomphshment,  and 
listened  to  her  accordingly  with  great  delight  and  ad- 
miration ;  "  her  mother,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "  was 
a  clever  managing  woman,  and  sorry  enough  was  I  to 
lose  her  ;  but  gracious  me,  she  was  nothing  to  Martha  ! 
where  she  spoke  one  word,  Martha  speaks  ten." 

The  rest  of  the  family  heard  this  eternal  din  with 
far  less  complacency.  They  agreed,  indeed,  that  she 
could  not  help  scolding,  that  it  was  her  way,  and  that 
they  were  all  fools  to  take  notice  of  it ;  but  yet  they 
would  flee,  one  and  all,  before  the  outpouring  of  her 
wrath,  like  birds  before  a  thunder  shower. 

The  person  on  whom  the  storm  fell  oftenest  and 
loudest  was  of  course  her  own  immediate  subject, 
the  maid ;  and  of  the  many  damsels  who  had 
undergone  the  discipline  of  jNIartha's  tongue,  none  was 
ever  more  the  object  of  her  objugation,  or  deserved 
it  less,  than  Dinah  Moore.  But  Dinah  had  many  sins 
in  her  stern  mistress's  eye,  which  would  hardly  have 
been  accounted  such  elsewhere.     In  the  first  place  she 


THE    CHINA   JUG.  167 

was  young  and  pretty,  and  to  youth  and  beauty  Martha 
had  strong  objections  ;  then  she  was  somewhat  addicted 
to  rustic  finery,  especially  in  the  article  of  pink  top- 
knots, —  and  to  rosy  ribbons  INIartha  had  almost  as 
great  an  aversion  as  to  rosy  cheeks ;  then  again  the 
young  lass  had  a  spirit,  and  when  unjustly  accused 
would  vindicate  herself  with  more  wit  than  prudence, 
and  better  tempered  persons  than  INIartha  cannot 
abide  that  qualification ;  moreover  the  httle  damsel 
had  an  irresistible  lightness  of  heart,  and  a  gaiety  of 
temper,  which  no  rebuke  could  tame,  no  severity 
repress  ;  laughter  was  as  natural  to  her,  as  chiduig  to 
her  mistress  ;  all  her  labors  vfent  merrily  on :  she 
would  sing  over  the  mashing  tub,  and  smile  through 
the  washing  week,  out-singing  Martha's  scolding,  and 
out-smiling  Martha's  frowns. 

This  in  itself  would  have  been  sufficient  cause  of 
bffence  ;  but  when  Martha  fancied,  and  fancied  truly, 
that  the  pink  top-knots,  the  smiles,  and  the  songs  were 
all  aimed  at  the  heart  of  her  brother  George,  of  whom 
in  her  own  rough  way,  she  was  both  fond  and  proud, 
the  pretty  songstress  became  insupportable  ;  and  when 
George,  in  despite  of  her  repeated  warnings,  did 
actually,  one  fine  morning  espouse  Dinah  Moore, 
causing  her  in  her  agitation  to  let  fall  an  old-fashioned 
china  wash-hand  bason,  the  gift  of  a  long-deceased 
god-mother,  which,  with  the  jug  belonging  to  it,  she 
valued  more  than  any  other  of  her  earthly  possessions  ; 
no  wonder  that  she  made  a  vow  never  to  speak  to  her 


168  FKIE.NDSIIIP'S    GIFT. 

brother  whilst  she  hved,  or  that  more  m  resentment 
than  in  covetousness  (for  Martha  Mearing  was  rather 
a  harsh  and  violent,  than  an  avaricious  woman)  she 
encouraged  her  father  in  his  angry  resolution  of  ban- 
ishing the  culprit  from  his  house,  and  disinheritmg 
him  from  his  property. 

Old  Farmer  Mearing  w^as  not,  however,  a  wicked 
man,  although  in  many  respects  a  hard  one.  He  did 
not  turn  his  son  out  to  starve  :  on  the  contrary,  he 
settled  him  in  the  Pond  Farm,  with  a  decent  though 
scanty  plenishing,  put  twenty  pounds  in  his  pocket,  and 
told  him  that  he  had  nothing  more  to  expect  from  him, 
and  that  he  must  make  his  own  way  in  the  world  as 
he  had  done  forty  years  before. 

George's  heart  would  have  sunk  under  this  renun- 
ciation, for  he  was  of  a  kind  but  wxak  and  indolent 
nature,  and  wholly  accustomed  to  depend  on  his  father, 
obey  his  orders,  and  rely  on  him  for  support ;  but  he 
was  sustained  by  the  bolder  and  firmer  spirit  of  his 
wife,  who,  strong,  active,  lively  and  sanguine,  findmg 
herself  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  her  own  mistress, 
in  possession  of  a  comfortable  home,  and  married  to  the 
man  of  her  heart,  saw  nothing,  but  sunshine  before 
them.  Dinah  had  risen  in  the  world,  and  George  had 
fallen  ;  and  this  circumstance,  in  addition  to  an  origi- 
nal diflerence  of  temperament,  may  sufficiently  ac- 
count for  their  dirfercnce  of  feeling. 

During  the  first  year  or  t^vo,  Dinah's  prognostics 
seemed  likely  to  be  verified.     George  ploughed  and 


THE    CHINA   JUG.  169 

sowed  and  reaped,  and  she  made  butter,  reared  poul- 
try, and  fatted  pigs  :  and  their  industry  prospered, 
and  the  world  went  well  with  the  young  couple.  But 
a  bad  harvest,  the  death  of  their  best  cow,  the  lame- 
ness of  their  most  serviceable  horse,  and  more  than 
all,  perhaps,  the  birth  of  four  little  girls  in  four  succes- 
sive years,  crippled  them  sadly,  and  brought  poverty, 
and  the  fear  of  poverty  to  their  happy  fire-side. 

Still,  however,  Dinah's  spirits  continued  imdimin- 
ished.  Her  children,  although,  to  use  her  own  phrase, 
"  of  the  WTong  sort,  grew  and  flourished,"  as  the  chil- 
dren of  poor  people  do  grow  and  flourish,  one  hardly 
knows  how  ;  and  by  the  time  that  the  long-wished-for 
boy  made  his  appearance  in  the  world,  the  elder  girls 
had  become  almost  as  useful  to  their  father  as  if  they 
had  been  "  of  the  right  sort "  themselves.  Never 
were  seen  such  hardy  little  elves !  They  drove  the 
plough,  tended  the  kine,  folded  the  sheep,  fed  the  pigs, 
worked  in  the  garden,  made  the  hay,  hoed  the  turnips, 
reaped  the  corn,  hacked  the  beans,   and  drove  the 

market-cart  to  B on  occasion,  and  sold  the  butter, 

eggs,  and  poultry  as  well  as  their  mother  could  have 
done. 

Strong,  active,  and  serviceable  as  boys,  were  the 
little  lasses ;  and  pretty  withall,  though  as  brown  as 
so  many  gipsies,  and  as  untrained  as  wild  colts. 
They  had  their  mother's  bright  and  sparkhng  coun- 
tenance, and  her  gay  and  sunny  temper,  a  heritage, 
more  valuable  than  house  or  land, — a  gift  more 
14 


170  friendship's  gift. 

precious  than  ever  was  bestowed  on  a  favored  princess 
by  beneficent  fairy.  But  the  mother's  darling  was 
one  who  bore  no  resemblance  to  her  either  in  mind  or 
person,  her  only  son  and  youngest  child  Moses,  so 
called  after  his  grandfather,  in  a  lurking  hope,  which 
was  however  disappointed,  that  the  name  might 
propitiate  the  offended  and  wealthy  yeoman. 

Little  Moses  was  a  fair,  mild,  quiet  boy,  who 
seemed  at  first  sight  far  fitter  to  wear  petticoats 
than  any  one  of  his  madcap  sisters  ;  but  there  was  an 
occasional  expression  in  his  deep  grey  eye  that  gave 
token  of  sense  and  spirit,  and  an  unfailing  steadiness 
and  diligence  about  the  child  that  promised  to  vindicate 
his  mother's  partiahty.  She  was  determined  that 
Moses  should  be,  to  use  the  country  phrase,  "  a  good 
scholar  ;  "  the  meaning  of  which  is,  by  the  way,  not 
a  little  dissimilar  from  that  which  the  same  words 
bear  at  Oxford  or  at  Cambridge.  Poor  Dmah  was  no 
'•  scholar  "  herself,  as  the  parish  register  can  testify, 
where  her  mark  stands  below  George's  signature  in 
the  record  of  her  marriage  ;  and  the  girls  bade  fair 
to  emulate  their  mother's  ignorance,  Dinah  having 
given  to  each  of  the  four  the  half  of  a  year's  school- 
ing, upon  the  principle  of  ride  and  tie,  little  Lucy 
going  one  day,  and  little  Patty  the  next,  and  so  on 
with  the  succeeding  pair  ;  in  this  way  adroitly  edu- 
cating two  children  for  the  price  of  one,  their  mother 
in  her  secret  soul  holding  it  for  girls,  a  waste  of  time. 
But  when  Moses  came  in  question,  the  case  was  altered. 


THE    CHINA    JUG.  171 

He  was  destined  to  enjoy  the  benefit  of  an  entire 
education,  and  to  imbibe  unshared  all  the  learning  that 
the  parish  pedagogue  could  bestow.  An  admission  to 
the  Wokefield  free-school  ensured  him  this  advantage, 
together  with  the  right  of  wearing  the  long  primitive 
blue  cloth  coat  and  leathern  girdle,  as  well  as  the  blue 
cap  and  yellow  tassel  by  which  the  boys  were  distin- 
guished ;  and  by  the  time  he  was  eight  years  old,  he 
had  made  such  progress  in  the  arts  of  writing  and 
ciphering,  that  he  was  pronounced  by  the  master  to  be 
the  most  promising  pupil  in  the  school. 

At  this  period,  misfortunes,  greater  than  they  had 
hitherto  known,  began  to  crowd  around  his  family. 
Old  Farmer  Mearing  died,  leaving  all  his  property  to 
Martha ;  and  George,  a  broken  hearted,  toil-worn 
man,  who  had  been  only  supported  in  his  vain  effort 
to  make  head  against  ill-fortune  by  the  hope  of  his 
father's  at  last  relenting,  followed  him  to  the  grave  in 
less  than  two  months.  Debt  and  difficulty  beset  the 
widow,  and  even  her  health  and  spirits  began  to  fail. 
Her  only  resource  seemed  to  be  to  leave  her  pleasant 
home,  give  up  everything  to  the  creditors,  get  her 
girls  out  to  service,  and  try  to  maintain  herself  and 
Moses  by  washing  or  charing,  or  whatever  work  her 
failing  strength  would  allow  her  to  perform. 

Martha,  or  as  she  was  now  called,  Mrs.  Martha, 
lived  on  in  lonely,  and  apparently  comfortless  affluence 
at  the  Manor  Farm.  She  had  taken  no  notice  of 
Dinah's  humble   supphcations,  sent  injudiciously  by 


172  friendship's  gift. 

Patty,  a  girl  whose  dark  and  sparkling  beauty  exactly 
resembhd  what  her  niother  had  been  before  her  unfor- 
tunate marriage  ;  but  on  Moses,  so  like  his  father,  she 
had  been  seen  to  gaze  wistfully  and  tenderly,  when  the 
little  procession  of  charity  boys  passed  her  on  their  way 
to  church  ;  though  on  finding  herself  observed,  or  per- 
haps, on  detecting  herself  in  such  an  indulgence,  the 
softened  eye  was  immediately  withdrawn,  and  the 
stern  spirit  seemed  to  gather  itself  into  a  resolution 
only  the  stronger  for  its  momentary  weakness. 

Mrs.  Martha,  now  long  past  the  middle  of  life,  and 
a  confirmed  old  maid,  had  imbibed  a  fcAv  of  the  habits 
and  pecuharities  which  are  supposed,  and  perhaps 
justly,  to  characterise  that  condition.  Amongst  other 
things  she  had  a  particular  fancy  for  the  water  from 
the  Elmin  spring,  and  could  not  relish  her  temperate 
supper  if  washed  do^Mi  by  any  other  beverage  ;  and 
she  was  accustomed  to  fetch  it  herself  in  the  identical 
china  jug,  the  present  of  her  godmother,  the  bason 
belonging  to  which  she  had  broken  from  the  shock 
she  underwent  when  hearing  of  George's  wedding. 
It  is  even  possible,  so  much  are  we  the  creatures  of 
association,  that  the  constant  sight  of  this  favorite 
piece  of  porcelain,  which  was  really  of  very  curious 
and  beautiful  Nankin  china,  might,  by  perpetually 
reminding  her  of  her  loss,  and  the  occasion,  serve  to 
confirm  her  inveterate  aversion  to  poor  George  and 
his  family. 

However  this  might  be,  it  chanced  that  one  summer 


THE    CHINA   JUG.  173 

evening  Mrs.  jNIartha  sallied  forth  to  fetch  the  spark- 
ling draught  from  the  Elmin  spring.  She  filled  her 
jug  as  usual,  but  much  rain  had  fallen,  and  the  dame, 
no  longer  so  active  as  she  had  been,  slipped  when 
about  to  re-ascend  the  bank  with  her  burden,  and 
found  herself  compelled  either  to  throw  herself  for- 
ward and  grasp  the  trunk  of  the  nearest  tree,  to  the 
imminent  peril  of  her  china  jug,  of  which  she  was 
compelled  to  let  go,  or  to  slide  back  to  the  already 
tottering  and  slippery  plank,  at  the  risk,  almost  the 
certainty  of  plmiging  head  foremost  into  the  water. 
K  Mrs.  Martha  had  been  asked,  on  level  ground  and 
out  of  danger,  whether  she  prefered  to  be  soused  in 
her  own  person,  or  to  break  her  china  jug,  she  would, 
most  undoubtedly,  theoretically  have  chosen  the  duck- 
ing ;  but  theory  and  practice  are  different  matters, 
and  following  the  instmct  of  self-preservation,  she  let 
the  dear  mug  go,  and  clung  to  the  tree. 

As  soon  as  she  was  perfectly  safe  she  began  to 
lament,  in  her  usual  \dtuperative  strain,  over  her 
irreparable  loss,  scolding  the  tottering  plank  and  the 
slippery  bank,  and  finally,  there  being  no  one  else  to 
bear  the  blame,  her  own  heedless  haste,  which  had 
cost  her  the  commodity  she  valued  most  in  the  world. 
Swinging  herself  round,  however,  still  supported  by 
the  tree,  she  had  the  satisfaction  to  perceive  that  the 
dear  jug  was  not  yet  either  sunken  or  broken.  It 
rested  most  precariously  on  a  tuft  of  bulrushes  towards 
the  centre  of  the  pool,  in  instant  danger  of  both 
14* 


174  friendship's  gift. 

these  calamltieSj  and,  indeed,  appeared  to  her  to  be 
visibly  sinking  under  its  own  weight.  What  could 
she  do  ?  She  could  never  reach  it ;  and  whilst  she 
went  to  summon  assistance,  the  precious  porcelain 
would  vanish.     What  could  she  do  ? 

Just  as  she  was  asking  herself  this  question,  she 
had  the  satisfaction  to  hear  footsteps  in  the  lane.  She 
called  ;  and  a  small  voice  was  heard  singing,  and  the 
little  man  Moses,  with  his  satchel  at  his  back,  made 
his  appearance,  returning  from  school.  He  had  not 
heard  her,  and  she  w^ould  not  call  him  —  not  even  to 
preserve  her  chma  treasure.  Moses,  however,  saw 
the  dilemma,  and  pausing  only  to  pull  off  his  coat, 
plunged  mto  the  water,  to  rescue  the  smking  cup. 

The  summer  had  been  wet,  and  the  pool  was  unus- 
ually high,  and  Mrs.  Martha,  startled  to  perceive  that 
he  was  almost  immediately  bej^ond  his  depth,  called  him 
earnestly  and  vehemently  to  return.  The  resolute  boy, 
however,  accustomed  from  infancy  to  dabble  like  the 
young  Avater-fowl  amidst  the  sedges  and  islets  of  the 
great  pond,  was  not  to  be  frightened  by  the  puny  waters 
of  the  Elmin  spring.  He  reached,  though  at  some  peril, 
the  tuft  of  bulrushes  —  brought  the  jug  triumphantly  to 
land  —  washed  it — filled  it  at  the  fountain-head, 
and  finally  offered  it,  with  his  own  sweet  and  gracious 
smile,  to  Mrs.  Martha.  And  she  —  oh !  what  had 
she  not  suffered  during  the  last  few  moments,  whilst 
the  poor  orphan  —  her  brother  George's  only  boy, 
was  risking  his  fife  to  preserve  for  her  a  paltry  bit  of 


THE    CHINA   JUG.  175 

earthen-ware  ?  AVhat  had  she  not  felt  during  those 
few  but  long  moments  ?  Her  woman's  heart  melted 
within  her  ;  and  instead  of  seizing  the  precious  porce- 
lain, she  caught  the  dripping  boy  in  her  arms  —  half 
smothered  him  with  kisses,  and  vowed  that  her  home 
should  be  his  home,  and  her  fortune  his  fortune.  And 
she  kept  her  word,  —  she  provided  amply  and  kindly 
for  Dinah  and  her  daughters  ;  but  Moses  is  her  heir,  and 
he  lives  at  the  jNIanor  Farm,  and  is  married  to  the 
prettiest  woman  in  the  country ;  and  Mrs.  Martha  has 
betaken  herself  to  the  Pond-side,  with  a  temper  so 
much  ameliorated,  that  the  good  farmer  declares  the 
greatest  risk  his  children  run  is,  of  being  spoilt  by 
aunt  Martha :  —  one  in  particular,  her  godson  who 
has  inherited  the  name  and  the  favor  of  his  father, 
and  is  her  own  especial  little  Moses. 


PAGANINI.  I 


ANONYMOUS. 


It  was  announced  one  morning,  that  Paganini 
would,  that  evening,  give  a  concert  at  the  Grand 
Opera,  previous  to  his  departure  for  London.  This 
was  an  occasion  not  to  be  missed ;  and  I  stationed 
myself  at  the  door  of  the  theatre  about  two  hours  be- 
fore the  time  for  opening.  The  crowd  was  immense  ; 
and  though  I  stood  in  a  favorable  place  for  getting  in, 
the  house  seemed  absolutely  crowded  before  I  enter- 
ed—  though  a  few  minutes  only  had  elapsed  from 
the  first  opening  of  the  doors.  After  a  long  overture 
played  by  the  orchestra,  the  curtain  was  raised,  and 
in  a  few  moments  this  singular  man  came  forward 
alone  upon  the  stage.  His  appearance  is  very  re- 
markable ;  his  tall,  thin  and  bending  figure  ;  his  long 
hair  combed  back  and  descending  upon  his  shoulders ; 
the  strange  expression  of  his  countenance,  which 
has  something  in  it  almost  supernatural,  a  mixture 
of  good-nature  and  diabolical  sneering  ;  all  become 
strongly  impressed  upon  the  mind,  and  serve  to  in- 


PAGANINI.  177 

crease  the  effect  produced  by  liis  music.  He  advanced 
sloAvly  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  -^ith  a  very  awkward, 
one-sided  motion,  and  bowed  to  the  audience,  who 
received  him  with  the  warmest  applause. 

There  he  stood,  for  a  minute  or  two,  looking  at  the 
splendid  scene  before  him,  of  an  immense  theatre 
filled  to  overflowing,  and  brilhantly  lighted  ;  then 
bowed  again  to  the  reiterated  plaudits,  in  his  exces- 
sively awkward  manner ;  and  after  that,  pulled  out  his 
cambric  handkerchief,  wiped  his  fingers,  and  raised 
his  violin,  as  if  about  to  commence.  The  profoundest 
silence  immediately  ensued ;  but  something  seemed  to 
be  wrong,  and  he  took  away  his  viohn  again,  giving 
a  most  Satanic  grin  at  the  disappointment  of  the  au- 
dience. This  only  called  forth  more  applause.  He 
i*aised  the  violin  again  :  the  noise  was  instantly  hushed 
to  the  deepest  stillness,  and  the  first  note  of  liis  magic 
instrument  was  heard.  It  was  unlike  that  of  any 
other  one,  and  could  be  clearly  distinguished,  even 
when  the  whole  orchestra  was  playing.  There  was  a 
richness  in  the  tones,  something  like  the  reedy  sound 
of  a  fine  open  diapason. 

As  the  player  proceeded,  the  attention  of  the  au- 
dience became  more  and  more  fixed,  as  their  wonder 
was  excited  and  increased,  by  the  successive  powers 
which  he  displayed.  The  most  rapid  and  inconceivable 
execution  seemed  to  cost  this  wonderful  man  no 
trouble  ;  but  the  notes  appeared  to  glide  from  his  bow 
without  his  vohtion.      Occasionally  he  rose  on  the 


178  friendship's  gift. 

scale  far  above  the  reach  of  ordinary  instruments  — 
and  the  tones  came  out  clear,  liquid,  and  sweet,  like 
the  warbling  of  a  bird ;  then  he  descended  to  the 
lowest  notes,  as  if  amusing  himself  with  the  compass 
of  his  instrument.  Indeed,  through  the  whole  per- 
formance, he  had  the  air  of  playing  for  his  own 
amusement,  rather  than  that  of  his  audience.  At 
the  end  of  some  of  his  most  difficult  passages,  he 
gave  his  bow  a  flourish  in  the  air,  as  if  he  was  tri- 
umphing in  his  superior  skill.  The  strange  and  almost 
infernal  sounds  he  produced,  which  gently  faded  into 
the  sweetest  and  most  delicious,  before  the  ear  became 
shocked  by  them ;  the  wildness  and  abruptness  of  his 
transitions  ;  the  prodigious  power  displayed  in  his  ex- 
ecution, combined  with  the  odd  looks  and  disagreeable 
expression  of  the  man ;  and  the  conciousness  that 
there  was  not,  at  the  time,  nor  ever  had  been,  any 
performer  in  the  world  to  compare  with  him,  gave  an 
unusual  effect  to  the  exhibition,  and  inspired,  univer- 
sally, a  sensation  of  almost  superstitious  awe ;  as  if 
the  being,  who  thus  riveted  the  attention  and  stole 
away  the  faculties  of  his  hearers,  were  possessed  of 
more  than  mortal  powers  —  and,  for  my  own  part,  I 
felt  as  if  I  were  in  the  actual  presence  of  the  great 
enemy  himself. 


THE  OLD  CORPORAL. 


BERANGER. 


With  shoulder'd  arms  and  charg'd  fusil, 

On,  gallant  comrades,  on  go  you ; 
I  've  still  my  pipe  and  your  good  will, 
Come,  give  me  now  my  last  adieu! 
To  grow  so  old  I  have  done  ill ; 

But  you,  who  fame  have  yet  to  reap,  — 
I  was  your  father  in  the  drill,  — 
Soldiers,  pace  keep  ! 
Nay,  do  not  weep,  — 
No,  do  not  weep  ! 
March  on  —  pace  keep,  — 
Pace  keep  —  palje  keep  —  pace  keep  —  pace  keep  ! 

II. 

For  a  proud  officer's  affi'ont, 

I  wound  him  ^—  he  is  cured  —  they  try, 
Condemn  me,  as  it  is  their  wont, 

And  the  Old  Corporal  must  die. 
By  taunt  and  temper  hurried  on. 

My  sword  would  from  its  scabbard  leap :  — 
But,  then,  I've  served  Napoleon  ! 


180  friendship's  gift. 

Comrades,  pace  keep ! 
Nay,  do  not  weep — 
No,  do  not  weep  ! 
March  on,  —  pace  keep,  — 
Pace  keep  —  pace  keep  —  pace  keep  —  pace  keep ! 


Soldier  !  an  arm  or  leg  you'll  sell 
To  win  a  cross,  not  often  wore: 
Mine,  in  those  wars,  I  fought  for  well, 
When  ive  drove  all  the  kings  before. 
We  drank  —  I  told  of  battle  phiins  — 

You  paid,  and  deem'd  the  story  cheap; 
The  glory  now  alone  remains ! 
Comrades,  pace  keep ! 
Nay,  do  not  weep  — 
No,  do  not  weep  — 
March  on,  pace  keep, — 
Pace  keep  —  pace  keep — pace  keep  —  pace  keep  ! 


Robert,  —  from  my  own  village  fair,  — 
Return  thee,  child,  and  tend  thy  fold, 
Stay,  view  those  shady  gardens  there. 

More  April  flowers  our  Cantons  hold  ! 
Oft  in  our  woods  —  with  dew  still  wet  — 

Unnesting  birds.  Id  run  and  leap. 
Good  God  !  my  mother  liveth  yet ! 
Comrades,  pace  keep ! 
Nay,  do  not  weep — 
Oh,  do  not  weep  ! 
March  on  —  pace  keep,  — 
Pace  keep  —  pace  keep  —  pace  keep  —  pace  keep  ! 


THE    OLD    CORPORAL.  181 

V. 

Who  yonder  sobs  and  looks  so  hard  ? 

Ah  !  'tis  the  drummer's  widow  poor; 
In  Russia  —  in  the  rearward  guard  — 

All  day  and  night  her  boy  I  bore, 
Else  father,  wife,  and  child,  away 

Had  stay'd  beneath  the  snow  to  sleep ; 
She's  going  for  my  soul  to  pray. 

Comrades,  pace  keep  !  ^ 

Nay,  do  not  weep  —  A 

No,  do  not  weep  ! 
March  on  —  pace  keep, — 
Pace  keep  —  pace  keep  —  pace  keep  —  pace  keep. 

VI. 

Zounds!  but  my  pip's  gone  out  apace  ; 

Hah,  no  !  —  not  yet  —  come  on,  all's  right. 
We're  now  within  the  allotted  space  ; 

There  !  with  no  bandage  hide  my  sight ! 
My  friends  I  would  not  tire  with  pain ; 

Above  all,  do  not  draw  too  low ; 
And  may  God  lead  you  home  again ! 
There,  comrades,  go ! 
Nay,  do  not  weep  — 
No,  do  not  weep  ! 
March  on  —  pace  keep  ! 
Pace  keep  —  pace  keep  —  pace  keep  —  pace  keep. 


15 


THE  PHANTOM  PORTRAIT. 


BY    S.   T.  COLERIDGE. 

A  STRANGER  came  recommended  to  a  mercliant's 
house  at  Lubeck.  He  was  hospitably  received,  but, 
the  house  being  full,  he  was  lodged  at  night  in  an 
apartment  handsomely  furnished,  but  not  often  used. 
There  was  nothing  that  struck  him  particularly  in  the 
room  when  left  alone,  till  he  happened  to  cast  his  eyes 
on  a  picture,  which  immediately  arrested  his  attention. 
It  was  a  single  head ;  but  there  was  something  so 
uncommon,  so  frightful  and  unearthly,  in  its  expres- 
sion, though  by  no  means  ugly,  that  he  found  himself 
irresistibly  attracted  to  look  at  it.  In  fact,  he  could 
not  tear  himself  from  the  fascination  of  this  portrait, 
till  his  imagination  was  filled  by  it,  and  his  rest  broken. 
He  retired  to  bed,  dreamed,  and  awoke  from  time  to 
time  with  the  head  glaring  on  him.  In  the  morning, 
his  host  saw  by  his  looks  that  he  slept  ill,  and  inquired 
the  cause,  wliich  was  told.  The  master  of  the  house 
was  much  vexed,  and  said  that  the  picture  ought  to 
have  been  removed,  that  it  was  an  oversight,  and  that 


THE  PHANTON  TORTRAIT.  183 

it  alwaj^s  was  removed  when  the  chamber  was  used. 
The  picture,  he  said,  was  indeed  terrible  to   every 
one  ;  but  it  was  so  fine,  and  had  come  into  the  family 
in  so  curious  a  way,  that  he   could  not  make  up  his 
mind  to  part  with  it,  or  destroy  it.     The  story  of  it 
was  this :  — "  My  father,"  said  he, "  was  at  Hamburgh 
on  business,  and,  w^hilst  dining  at  a  coffee-house,  he 
observed  a  young  man  of  a  remarkable  appearance 
enter,  seat  himself  alone  in  a  corner,  and  commence 
a  solitary  meal.     His  countenance  bespoke  the  ex- 
treme of   mental  distress,  and  every  now  and  then 
he    turned   his  head   quickly   round,  as  if    he  had 
heard  something,  then  shudder,  grow  pale,  and  go  on 
with  his  meal  after  an  effort  as  before.     My  father 
saw  this  same  man  at  the  same  place  for  two  or  three 
successive  days,  and  at  length  became  so  much  inter- 
ested about  him,  that  he  spoke  to  him.     The  address 
was  not  repulsed,  and  the  stranger  seemed  to  find 
some  comfort  in  the  tone  of  sympathy  and  kindness 
which  my  father  used.     He  was  an  Itahan,  well  in- 
formed, poor  but  not  destitute,  and  living  economically 
upon  the  profits  of  his  art  as  a  painter.     Their  inti- 
macy increased  ;  and  at  length  the  Italian,  seeing  my 
father's  ui voluntary  emotion  at  his  convulsive  turnings 
and  shudderings,  which  continued  as  formerly,  inter- 
rupting their  conversation  from  time  to  time,  told  him 
his  story.     He  w^as  a  native  of  Rome,  and  had  hved 
in  some  familiarity    with,  and  been  much  patronized 
by  a  young  nobleman  ;  but  upon  some  slight  occasion 


184  friendship's  gift. 

they  had  fallen  out,  and  his  patron,  besides  using 
many  reproachful  expressions,  had  struck  him.  The 
painter  brooded  over  the  disgrace  of  the  blow.  He 
could  not  challenge  the  nobleman  on  account  of  his 
rank  ;  he  therefore  watched  for  an  opportunity  and 
assassinated  him.  Of  course  he  fled  from  his  country, 
and  finally  had  reached  Hamburgh.  He  had  not, 
however,  passed  many  weeks  from  the  night  of  the 
murder,  before,  one  day,  in  the  crowded  street,  he 
heard  his  name  called  by  a  voice  familiar  to  him  :  he 
turned  short  round,  and  saw  the  face  of  his  victim 
lookmg  at  him  \dth  a  fixed  eye.  From  that  moment 
he  had  no  peace ;  at  all  hours,  in  all  places,  and 
amidst  all  companies,  however  engaged  he  might  be, 
he  heard  the  voice,  and  could  never  help  looking 
round ;  and,  whenever  he  so  looked  round,  he  always 
encountered  the  same  face  starmg  close  upon  him. 
At  last,  in  a  mood  of  desperation,  he  had  fixed  himself 
face  to  face,  and  eye  to  eye,  and  deliberately  drawn 
the  phantom  visage  as  it  glared  upon  him  ;  and  this 
was  the  picture  so  drawn.  The  Italian  said  he  had 
struggled  long,  but  life  was  a  burden  which  he  could 
no  longer  bear ;  and  he  was  resolved,  when  he  had 
made  money  enough  to  return  to  Rome,  to  surrender 
himself  to  justice,  and  expiate  his  crime  on  the  scaf- 
fold. He  gave  the  finished  pictm'e  to  my  father,  in 
return  for  the  kindness  which  he  had  shown  to  him." 


BROKEN  TIES, 


BY    J.    MONTGOMERY. 

The  broken  ties  of  happier  days, 

How  often  do  they  seem 
To  come  before  our  mental  gaze, 

Like  a  remembered  dream  ; 
Around  us  each  dissevered  chain 

In  sparkling  ruin  lies, 
And  earthly  hand  can  ne'er  again 

Unite  those  broken  ties. 

The  parents  of  our  infant  home, 

The  kindred  that  we  loved, 
Far  from  our  arms,  perchance,  may  roam. 

To  distant  scenes  removed  ; 
Or  we  have  watched  their  parting  breath, 

And  closed  their  weary  eyes. 
And  sigh'd  to  think  how  sadly  death 

Can  sever  human  ties. 

The  friend:^,  the  loved  ones  of  our  youth, 
They,  too,  are  gone  or  changed, 

Or,  worse  than  all,  their  love  and  truth 
Are  darkened  and  estranged. 

15* 


186  friendship's  gift. 

They  meet  us  in  a  glittering  throng, 

With  cold,  averted  eyes, 
And  wonder  that  we  weep  our  wrong, 

And  mourn  our  broken  ties. 

Oh  !  who,  in  such  a  world  as  this, 

Could  bear  their  lot  of  pain,  \ 

Did  not  one  radiant  hope  of  bliss,  ! 

Unclouded,  yet  remain  ? —  i 

That  hope  the  sovereign  Lord  has  giver?,  | 

Who  reigns  beyond  the  skies  : 
That  hope  unites  our  souls  to  Heaven^ 

By  truth's  enduring  ties.  | 

Each  care,  each  ill  of  mortal  birth, 

Is  sent  in  pitying  love,  j 

To  lift  the  lingering  heart  from  earth, 

And  speed  its  flight  above  ;  | 

And  every  pang  which  rends  the  breast,  j 

And  every  joy  that  dies,  j 

Tells  us  to  seek  a  heavenly  rest^  I 

And  trust  to  holier  ties. 


\\    N'Jilljil 


lif^     /"rr/ 


THE  WARRIOR'S  GRAVE. 


BY    MRS.    HEMANS. 


Green  wave  the  oak  for  ever  o'er  thy  rest! 
Thou  that  beneath  its  crowning  foliage  sleepest, 
And,  in  the  stillness  of  thy  country's  breast, 
Thy  place  of  memory,  as  an  altar,  keepest! 
Brightly  thy  sjjirit  o'er  her  hills  were  poured, 
Thou  of  the  Lyre  and  Sword  ! 

Rest  bard  !  rest,  soldier !  —  By  the  father's  hand, 
Here  shall  the  child  of  after  years  be  led, 
With  his  wreath-offering,  f-ilently  to  stand 
In  the  hushed  presence  of  the  glorious  dead! 
Soldier  and  bard!  for  thou  thy  path  hast  trod 
With  freedom  and  with  God ! 

The  oak  waved  proudly  o"er  thy  burial-rite. 
On  thy  crowned  bier  to  slumber  warriors  bore  thee, 
And  with  true  hearts,  thy  brethren  of  the  fight 
Wept  as  they  veiled  the  drooping  banners  o'er  thee, 
And  the  deep  guns,  with  rolling  peals,  gave  token 
That  Lyre  and  Sword  were  broken  ! 


188  friendship's  gift. 

Thou  hast  a  hero's  tomb  !  —  A  lowher  bed 
Is  hers,  the  gentle  girl  beside  thee  lying  ; 
The  gentle  girl,  that  bowed  her  fair  young  head, 
Wben  thou  wert  gone,  in  silent  sorrow  dying. 
Brother !  true  friend  !  the  tender  and  the  brave  ! 
She  pined  to  share  thy  grave. 

Fame  was  thy  gift  from  others  —  but  for  her, 
To  whom  the  wide  earth  held  that  only  spot, 
She  loved  thee  !  —  lovely  in  your  lives  ye  were, 
And  in  your  early  deaths  divided  not  I 
Thou  hast  tliine  oak  —  thy  trophy,  — what  hath  she  ? 
Her  own  blessed  place  by  thee  ! 

It  was  thy  spirit,  brother !  which  had  made 
The  bright  world  glorious  to  her  thoughtful  eye, 
Since  first  in  childhood  'midst  the  vines  ye  played. 
And  sent  glad  singing  through  the  free  blue  sky ! 
Ye  were  but  two  !  — and  when  that  spirit  passed, 
Woe  for  the  one,  —  the  last! 

Woe,  yet  not  long!  —  She  lingered  but  to  trace 
Thine  image  from  the  image  in  her  breast; 
Once,  once  again  to  see  that  buried  face 
But  smile  upon  her,  ere  she  went  to  rest! 
Too  sad  a  smile  !  —  its  living  light  was  o'er, 
It  answered  hers  no  more ! 

The  earth  grew  silent  when  thy  voice  departed, 
The  home  too  lonely  whence  thy  step  had  fled  ; 
What  then  was  left  for  her,  the  faithful  hearted  ? 
Death,  death,  to  still  ihe  yearning  for  the  dead  ! 
Softly  she  perished  —  be  the  flower  deplored 
Here,  with  the  Lyre  and  Sword  ! 


THE    WARHIOR's    GRAVE.  189 

Have  ye  not  met  ere  now  ?  —  So  let  those  trust 
That  meet  for  moments  but  to  part  for  years  ; 
That  weep,  watcli,  pray,  to  liold  back  dust  from  dust, 
That  love  where  love  is  but  a  fount  of  tears  ! 
Brother  !  sweet  sister  !  —  peace  around  ye  dwell  I 
Lyre,  Sword,  and  Flower,  farewell ! 


A  PAINT  BRUSH  SKETCH. 


ANONYMOUS. 


Maxy  people  in  this  country  have  an  idea  that  the 
private  personal  characters  of  celebrated  authors  are 
not  easily  to  be  got  at ;  but  I  assure  all  such  that  this  is 
a  very  mistaken  notion.  The  hospitably  entertained 
visitor  has  only  to  take  notes  of  what  transpires  in  his 
presence,  and  any  newspaper  editor  will  be  happy  to 
print  his  remarks  and  retail  his  experiences.  Much 
that  is  related  will  perhaps  appear  fabulous  or  over- 
stated, but  I  am  confident  my  readers  will  take  for 
truth  what  they  read  from  my  pen. 

My  family  had  but  recently  moved  from  London  into 
the  pleasant  town  of  Bedford,  and  as  yet  had  become 
known  to  very  few  of  its  inhabitants.  One  day  my 
elderly  maiden  aunt,  a  somewhat  noted  character  in 
our  family  circle,  sent  me  into  the  interior  of  the  town, 
some  distance  from  our  house,  in  pursuit  of  a  tinker's 
shop,  where  I  was  to  leave  a  small  brass  kettle  for  re- 
pairs. Not  knowing  the  way,  I  made  bold  to  ask  one 
of  a  group  of  boys  whom  I  found  playing  at  what  was 


A    PAINT    BRUSH    SKETCH.  191 

called  in  those  days,  "  the  game  of  cat."  The  lad, 
on  hearing  mj  question,  said  he  would  show  me  his 
father's  shop, "  the  old  man,"  as  he  observed,  "  being 
in  that  line  of  business  himself."  The  youth  was  a 
tall,  ungainly  lad,  but  had,  nevertheless,  a  curious 
twinkle  about  the  left  eye  which  attracted  my  atten-'' 
tion.  As  we  passed  along  a  straggling  row  of  shops, 
he  stopped  before  a  low  wooden  building,  and  pointed 
to  the  sign,  now  faded  and  swinging  in  the  breeze.  I 
looked  up  and  read  this  inscription  thereon  : 

Bunyan  y^  Town  Tinker. 

An  old  weather-beaten  individual  stood  in  the  door- 
way, who  immediately  accosted  my  guide  in  a  loud, 
angry  tone,  upbraiding  him  for  his  long  absence. 

"  Where  hast  thou  been  swaggering,  varlet  ?  "  cried 
the  old  man. 

"  Call  him  not '  varlet '  who  drinketh  his  dad's 
health  in  a  stoup  of  good  liquor  every  week  at  the 
cock-fight,"  replied  the  boy,  tartly. 

The  exasperated  father  made  as  if  he  would  strike 
the  stripling,  who,  eluding  his  grasp,  nimbly  raised  his 
right  thumb  to  the  extreme  end  of  his  nose,  twii-ledhis 
fingers  mysteriously  in  the  air,  and  ran  down  the  street 
lauo-hins.  I  mention  this  scene  to  show  how  ungodly 
the  boyhood  of  John  Bunyan  commenced,  and  how 
great  the  change  which  occurred  in  his  after  fife.  One 
of  his  school-fellows  told  me,  a  few  days  after  this 
circumstance,  that  it  was  not  an  uncommon  thing  to 


192  friendship's  gift. 

see  him  playing  at  hockey  on  Sundays  behind  the 
vestry.  Thrown  among  vile  companions,  he  was  early 
initiated  into  profaneness  and  all  sorts  of  boyish  vices. 
Wherever  there  was  a  bell-ringing  or  dancing,  this 
reckless  boisterer  was  sure  to  be  found,  and  my  parents 
soon  forbade  my  keeping  company  with  so  Avicked  a 
ring-leader.  I  do  not  mention  this  from  any  feeling 
of  disrespect  towards  the  Bunyan  family,  nor  for  the 
purpose  of  ridiculing  the  son  ;  but  being  a  townsman, 
and  knowing  all  their  private  transactions,  I  feel  more 
willing  to  make  them  known  this  side  of  the  Atlantic. 
If  I  remember  rightly,  I  saw  no  more  of  John, 
(my  father  soon  moving  back  to  London)  till  many 
years  after,  when  one  day,  happening  to  dine  with  my 
friend  Richard  Baxter,  at  the  house  of  our  mutual 
friend,  George  Herbert,  we  were  joined,  ratlier  late  in 
the  evening,  by  a  gentleman  of  very  striking  appear- 
ance. He  was  tall  of  stature,  strong-boned,  though 
not  corpulent,  somewhat  of  a  ruddy  face,  wearing  his 
reddish  hair  on  his  upper  lip  after  the  old  British 
fashion,  his  nose  was  well  set,  but  not  declining  or 
bending,  and  his  mouth  moderately  large.  I  felt  at 
once  that  a  remarka1)le  man  had  entered  the  room,  and 
when  my  friend  Baxter  introduced  the  author  of  "Pil- 
grim's Progress,"  I  knew  him  in  a  moment.  He  sat 
down  immediately,  bolt  upright,  at  the  table  and  ate 
very  freely  from  a  dish  of  well-cured  bacon,  and  the 
usual  accompaniment  of  eggs.  Wiile  he  was  appeas- 
ing his  hunger  I  had  a  good  opportunity  to  notice  his 


A    FAINT    BRUSH    SKETCH.  193 

dress  and  manners.  He  wore  a  brown  stuff  coat,  laced 
up  in  the  neck,  and  trimmed  with  two  rows  of  coarse 
leather  buttons.  Small  particles  of  snuff  were  just  visi- 
ble on  his  soiled  neck-cloth,  and  from  his  frequent  use 
of  small  bits  of  something  hlack^  I  should  say  he  par- 
took rather  freely  of  tobacco.  However,  on  this  point,  I 
will  not  be  too  positive,  as  I  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  table,  and,  as  I  said  before,  it  was  growing  late  in 
the  evening.  After  dming  as  I  thought  comfortably, 
not  to  say  bountifully,  he  conversed  with  me  exclu- 
sively (Mr.  Baxter  and  Mr.  Herbert  having  laid  down 
after  their  meal  as  usual)  for  more  than  an  hour.  He 
invited  me  to  visit  him  at  his  own  house,  and  shortly 
after,  happening  to  be  in  his  neighborhood,  I  complied 
"\Nith  his  request.  I  found  him  in  his  back  room, 
having  just  returned  from  a  ramble  with  his  Avife. 
Mrs,  Elizabeth  Bunyan  was  one  of  the  most  remarka- 
ble looking  women  I  ever  saw.  Energy,  mingled  with 
suavity,  was  most  strikingly  depicted  in  her  counten- 
ance. On  inquiry  I  learned  she  was  the  eldest 
daughter  of  a  respectable  retired  butcher,  himself  a 
very  remarkable  man.  I  think  I  never  saw  a  more 
attached  couple  than  ^Ir.  and  Mrs.  B.  They  receiv- 
ed me  very  cordially,  and  after  a  glass  of  gooseberry 
wine  we  entered  freely  into  conversation.  There  was 
nothing  of  restraint  in  the  manner  of  the  Bunyans 
toward  me,  and  I  soon  made  myself  quite  at  home 
with  this  worthy  couple. 

In  the  course  of  some  remarks  with  Mr.  B.  touching 
16 


194  friendship's  gift. 

his  P.  P.,  I  remember  I  observed  I  should  like  above 
all  things  to  see  the  original  manuscript  of  his  great 
work.  He  mstantlj  rose,  and  taking  from  an  old 
pair  of  bellows  a  roll  of  paper,  begged  my  acceptance 
of  the  autograph  sheets  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress ! 
Of  course  I  was  very  much  surprised  at  this  unex- 
pected mark  of  his  favor,  and  stammered  out  my 
thanks.  It  is  needless  for  me  to  add,  here,  that  I  still 
possess  this  valued  rehc,  and  that  no  money  would 
induce  me  to  part  with  it.  Mr.  John  Gilford,  the 
^parish  minister,  coming  in  soon  after,  the  conversation 
became  general.  Mr.  G.  appeared  to  be  a  very  well 
informed  person,  and  spoke  of  having  taken  tea  with 
Mr.  John  Milton  a  few  days  before.  I  managed  to 
get  an  invitation  to  meet  this  last  named  personage, 
particulars  of  which  interview  I  may  be  induced  to 
give  hereafter.  Mr.  Guilford  spoke  in  no  very  gentle 
terms  of  Chief  Justice  Hale,  whom  I  thought  he  went 
quite  out  of  his  way  to  castigate.  I  shall  always  look 
back  on  this  day,  however,  as  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing of  my  life. 

I  had  the  pleasure,  shortly  after  this  memorable 
occasion,  to  meet  Mr.  Oliver  Cromwell  at  a  large 
gathering  in  London,  when  he  asked  my  acceptance 
of  a  presentation  copy  of  "  Fox's  Book  of  the  Mar- 
tyrs," a  work  then  just  issued.  Mr.  Bunyan  being 
present,  took  the  volume  a  few  minutes  in  his  lap,  and 
wrote  on  the  fly-leaf  a  copy  of  verses  addressed  to  my- 
self, which  I  may  at  some  future  period  allow  to  be 


A    PAINT    BRUSH    SKETCH.  195 

printed.  I  have  also  a  great  many  letters  of  absorb- 
ing interest,  from  this  celebrated  man,  he  continuing 
to  correspond  with  me  till  the  day  of  his  death.  His 
gi*and-daughter,  Hannah,  was  married  very  soon  after 
to  a  cousin  of  my  father's,  and  from  her  descendants  I 
have  amassed  a  collection  of  original  papers,  in  John's 
hand-writing,  of  great  value.  The}^  also  may  one  day 
see  the  light. 

I  forgot  to  mention  a  great  curiosity  which  I  saw 
hanging  up  in  Mr.  Bunyan's  best  room.  This  was 
no  less  than  a  small  dark  frame  enclosing  the  original 
contract  with  Caxton  for  printing  Chaucer's  Canter- 
bury Tales,  and  receipts  for  Teyi  3IarJcs,  the  sum  paid 
for  its  copy-right.  Near  by  these  rare  documents 
hung  another  frame  entirely  empty.  I  asked  Mr.  B. 
the  intention  of  this,  and  he  replied,  if  my  memory 
serves  me,  as  follows  :  "  In  my  early  life,  sir,  I  once 
saw  a  Hundred  Pound  Note,  and  became  possessed 
with  a  strong  desire  to  obtain  one.  I  have  not  yet 
been  so  lucky,  but  the  moment  such  a  treasure  comes 
within  my  reach  I  intend  to  place  it  in  that  frame." 
Having  a  spurious  one  in  my  pocket,  I  immediately 
thrust  it  into  his  hand,  embraced  ]Mrs.  Bunyan  before 
Mr.  B.  had  time  to  express  his  thanks,  and  rushed 
out  of  the  house. 


THINGS  TO  COME 


BY     GEORGE     CROLY. 

There  are  murmurs  on  the  deep, 
There  are  thunders  on  the  heaven  ; 

Though  the  ocean  billows  sleep, 
Though  no  cloud  the  sign  has  given ; 

Earth  that  sudden  storm  shall  feel, 

'T  is  a  storm  of  man  and  steel. 

Tribes  are  in  their  forests  now. 
Idly  hunting  ounce  and  deer  ; 

Tribes  are  crouching  in  their  snow 
O'er  their  wild  and  wintry  cheer, 

Doomed  to  swell  that  tempest's  roar, 

Where  the  torrent-rain  is  gore. 

War  of  old  has  swept  the  world. 

Guilt  has  shaken  strength  and  pride  ; 

But  the  thunders,  feebly  hurled, 
Quivered  o'er  the  spot,  and  died; 

When  the  vengeance  next  shall  falU 

Wo  to  each,  and  wo  to  all. 

Man  hath  shed  Man's  blood  for  toys. 
Love  and  hatred,  fame  and  gold ; 


THINGS    TO    COME.  197 

Now,  a  mightier  wrath  destroys  ; 

Earth  in  cureless  crime  grows  old  ; 
Past  destruction  shall  be  tame 
To  the  rushing  of  that  flame. 

When  the  clouds  of  Vengeance  break, 

Folly  shall  be  on  the  wise, 
Frenzy  shall  be  on  the  weak, 

Nation  against  nation  rise. 
And  the  worse  than  Pagan  sword 
In  Religion's  breast  be  gored. 

Then  the  Martyr's  solemn  cr)^. 

That  a  thousand  years  has  rung, 
Where  their  robes  of  crimson  lie 

Round  the  "  Golden  Altar  "  flung, 
Shall  be  heard,— and  from  the  "throne," 
The  trumpet  of  the  "Judgment"  blown. 

'  Wo  to  Earth,  the  mighty  wo ! " 

Yet  shall  Earth  her  conscience  lull, 

Till  above  the  hr'un  shall  flow 

The  draught  of  gall— The  cup  is  full. 

Yet  a  moment !  —  Comes  the  ire,  — 

Famine,  bloodshed,  flood,  and  fire. 

First  shall  fall  a  Mighty  one  ! 

Ancient  crime  had  crowned  his  brow. 
Dark  Ambition  raised  his  throne  — 

Truth  his  victim  and  his  foe. 
Earth  shall  joy  in  all  her  fear 
Oer  the  great  Idolater. 


198  friendship's  gift. 

Then  shall  rush  abroad  the  blaze 
Sweeping  Heathen  zone  by  zone : 

Afric's  tribe  the  spear  shall  raise, 
Shivering  India's  paged  throne: 

China  hear  her  Idol's  knell 

In  the  Russian  cannon-peaL 

On  the  Turk  shall  fall  the  blow 

From  the  Grecian's  daggered  hand  ! 

Blood  like  winter-showers  shall  flow. 
Till  he  treads  the  Syrian  land ! 

Then  shall  final  vengeance  shine^ 

And  all  be  sealed  in  Palestine  I 


c  c  c 
t        t<  c  c 

'     .'  V' 

C    C    C    I 


^^ 


^^m^ 


■7/'/f^ 


THE  WATER  FALL. 


ANONYMOUS. 

Rush  on,  bold  stream  !  thou  sendest  up 
Brave  notes  to  all  the  woods  around, 

When  morning  beams  are  gathering  fast, 
And  hushed  is  every  human  sound; 

I  stand  beneath  the  sombre  hill. 

The  stars  are  dim  o'er  fount  and  rill, 

And  still  I  hear  thy  waters  play 

In  welcome  music,  far  away  ; 

Dash  on,  bold  stream!  I  love  the  roar 

Thou  sendest  up  from  rock  and  shore. 

'T  is  night  in  heaven  — the  rustling  leaves 

Are  whispering  of  the  coming  storm. 
And  thundering  down  the  river's  bed, 
I  see  thy  lengthened  darkling  form  ; 
No  voices  from  the  vales  are  heard, 
The  winds  are  low  —  each  little  bird 
Hath  sough  its  quiet,  rocking  nest. 
Folded  its  wing,  and  gone  to  rest, — 
And  still  I  hear  thy  waters  play 
In  welcome  music,  far  away. 


200  friendship's  gift. 

Oh  !  earth  hath  many  a  gallant  show 

Of  towering  peak  and  glacier  height, 
But  ne'er  beneath  the  glorious  moon, 
Hath  nature  framed  a  lovelier  sight, 
Than  thy  fair  tide  with  diamonds  fraught, 
When  every  drop  with  light  is  caught, 
And  o'er  the  bridge,  the  village  girls 
Reflect  below  their  waving  curls. 
While  merrily  thy  waters  play 
In  welcome  music,  far  away ! 


BIRTHPLACE  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


ANONYMOUS. 


From  Warwick  Castle,  an  hour's  ride  brought  me 
to  Stratford-on-Avon.  From  the  ''white  Lion"  Inn 
I  walked  down  the  street  to  where  a  rude  sign-board 
over  the  door  of  a  very  old  tAvo-story  building,  bore 
this  inscription  :  '''In  this  house  the  immortal  Shahs- 
'peare  ivas  horn.^^  I  entered,  and  was  at  once  con- 
ducted to  the  chamber  in  which,  it  is  said,  the  poet 
first  drew  breath.  Its  walls  are  completely  covered 
with  the  names  of  pilgrims  from  all  parts  of  the  world, 
attesting  thus  the  universality  of  his  fame.  Amid 
hundreds  of  unknown  names,  the  autographs  of  Wal- 
ter Scott  and  Washington  Irving  were  pointed  out  to 
me.  Around  the  room  were  disposed  numerous  rehcs, 
more  or  less  authentic,  such  as  likenesses  of  the 
poet,  articles  made  of  wood  of  the  famous  mulberry 
tree,  &c.  I  locked  at  these,  walked  back  and  forth 
in  the  apartment,  and  strove  to  make  it  real  to  myself, 
that  in  that  room  Shakspeare  was  born  ;  but  (shall  I 
confess  it  ?)  I  was  sensible  of  no  inspiring  impulse 


202  friendship's  gift. 

whatever.  In  truth,  I  was  altogether  m  a  most  mat- 
ter of  fact  state  of  mind.  So  capricious  is  feeling ! 
Here,  where  one  might  think  to  be  deeply  moved,  as 
if  admitted  to  commune  with  the  spirit  of  the  immor- 
tal bard,  I  looked  about  me  with  the  coolest  self- 
possession,  intensely  conscious  all  the  while  of  the 
presence  of  an  elderly  and  very  unpoetical  matron, 
waiting  quietly  for  the  customary  fee.  Not  to  be 
wholly  wanting  to  the  occasion,  however,  with  her 
consent,  I  severed  with  my -penknife  a  splinter  from 
the  massive  oaken  mantel  tree,  apparently  coeval  with 
the  house,  which  I  preserve  as  a  relic.  After  all, 
what  real  connection  has  that  sombre  locality  with 
Shakspeare,  such  as  he  was  in  the  full  maturity  of  his 
wonder  working  genius  ?  Its  walls  may  have  echoed 
his  childish  cries  —  may  have  borne  testimony  to  what 
he  was  when  an  infant  in  his  nurse's  amis  ;  but  these 
are  not  the  recollections  that  throng  upon  the  mind  in 
connection  with  the  sweet  bard  of  Avon,  unless,  in- 
deed, we  can  contemplate  even  his  childhood's  hours, 
through  that  poetical  medicine  which  Gray  has  so 
beautifully  conjured  up  in  liis  Progress  of  Poetry. 

"Far  from  tlie  sun  and  summer  gale, 
In  thy  green  lap  was  nature's  darling  laid, 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  stayed, 
To  him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face;  the  dauntless  child 
Stretched  forth  his  little  arms  and  smiled. 
This  pencil  take  (she  said)  whose  colors  clear 


BIRTHPLACE  OF  SHAKSPEARE.  203 

Richly  paint  the  vernal  year  ; 

Thine,  too,  these  golden  keyes,  immortal  boy  ! 

This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  joy ; 

Of  honor  that,  and  thrilling  fears, 

Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears." 

Yet,  even  here,  it  is  not  pent  up  within  gloomy 
walls,  but  gracefully  reclined  on  the  green  banks  of 
Avon,  in  the  midst  of  the  sweet  scenery  of  nature, 
that  we  view  the  infant  minstrel ;  the  illusion  would 
fade  were  the  scene  transferred  to  a  close  chamber 
in  a  buisy  street.  This  must  be  my  apology  to  the 
sentimental  for  the  phlegm  and  apathy  with  which  I 
surveyed  the  room  in  which,  if  tradition  may  be  cred- 
ited, the  great  poet  was  born. 

Certainly  a  very  different  feeling  took  possession  of 
my  bosom  when,  a  few  minutes  after,  I  found  myself 
within  the  chancel  of  the  parish  church,  bending  over 
the  flat  stone  that  marks  liis  grave.  As  I  read  the 
well-known  lines  inscribed  on  it  — 

Good  frend  for  Jesus  sake  forbeare 
To  digg  the  dust  encloased  heare 
Blest  be  the  man  that  spares  thes  stones 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones  — 

it  seemed  almost  as  if  his  voice  was  speaking  to  me 
from  the  grave.  Solemn  and  strange  were  my  feel- 
ings, when  I  thought  that  it  was  indeed  the  dust  of 
Shakspeare  that  reposed  beneath  my  feet.  The  lines 
above  cited  are  considered  his  own ;  and  no  sacrilc- 


204  friendship's  gift. 

gious  hand  has  dared  to  violate  a  grave  douhlj  guarded 
by  so  touchmg  an  appeal  and  so  awful  a  malediction. 
Here,  then,  beyond  all  doubt,  I  was  standing  on  the 
very  spot  where  more  than  two  hundred  years  ago, 
the  kindred  townsmen  of  Shakspeare  had  gathered 
to  consign  to  their  last  resting-place  his  mortal  re- 
mains. There  to  sleep  in  death,  whose  genius,  as  if 
instinctively  familiar  with  whatever  lies  within  the 
natural  range  of  the  intellectual  vision,  or  can  touch 
the  hidden  sprinks  of  emotion  in  the  heart,  has  em- 
balmed the  experience  of  universal  humanity  in  diction, 
that  wherever  the  English  language  shall  open  its 
treasures  to  men  of  cultivated  minds,  can  never  cease 
to  be  "  famihar  in  their  mouths  as  household  words." 
What  nobler  ambition  —  what  loftier  prerogative  of 
genius  could  there  be,  than  thus  to  touch  a  responsive 
chord  in  millions  of  human  bosoms  —  thus  to  leave  an 
enduring  memorial,  an  ineffaceable  impress  of  itself 
in  the  hearts  of  men,  by  enshrining  in  language  that 
can  never  die,  the  sentiments  and  emotions  that  agitate 
our  common  nature  ?  That  one  wdiose  human  exist- 
ence was  but  a  shadow,  whose  mortal  remains  a  httle 
space  of  consecrated  ground  encloses,  should  so  per- 
petuate on  earth  his  intellectual  being,  so  hve  again, 
as  it  were,  in  distant  ages  and  in  remotest  climes,  by 
the  vital  energy  of  his  genius,  inspiring  myriad  minds 
with  its  own  breathing  thoughts,  and  thrilling  them 
with  its  own  burning  emotions — is,  indeed,  (if  we 
except  transcendant  moral  excellence)  the  proudest 


BIRTHPLACE  OF  SIIAKSPEARE,  205 

triumph  that  Heaven  permits  over  the  ordinary  con- 
ditions of  humanity.  One  thing  was  wanting  to 
Shakspeare  —  we  feel  it  most  when  we  stand  at  his 
gi-ave  —  it  was  that  his  surpassing  genius  should  have 
been  subservient  to  the  loftiest  aims  of  virtue  —  that 
his  harp's  soul-subduing  strains  should  have  always 
been  in  unison  with  the  deep-toned  and  awful  morahty 
which  sometimes  breathes  in  them,  so  that  on  that 
imperishable  record,  which  he  has  left  to  successive 
ages,  there  might  have  remained 

"No  line  which,  dying,  he  could  wish  to  blot." 

But  let  it  not  be  forgotten,  that  while  Shakspeare's 
sublime  morality  is  characteristic  of  himself,  his  offen- 
sive grossness  is  but  the  reflection,  in  the  mirror 
which  he  held  up  to  nature,  of  the  licentiousness  of 
his  times. 

A  niche  in  the  wall  near  the  grave  of  the  poet, 
contains  his  bust,  probably  the  most  correct  likeness 
of  him  that  now  exists.  The  expression  of  the  coun- 
tenance is  rather  good-humored  and  cheerful,  than 
deeply  intellectual.  The  graves  of  his  wife  and  fa- 
vorite daughter  —  the  former,  that  Ann  Hathaway, 
whom  his  verses  have  rendered  famous  —  are  near  his 
own. 

Within  the  chancel,  and  quite  near  the  grave  of 
Shakspeare,  are  several  monuments  of  the  Combe 
family,  with  whom  he  lived  on  terms  of  intimacy. 
IT 


208  friendship's  gift. 

a  part  of  the  structure  being  betweed  four  and  five 
hundred  years  old.  It  stands  on  the  green  bank  of 
the  Avon,  at  a  httle  distance  from  the  town,  in  the 
midst  of  a  spacious  cemetery,  and  embosomed  in  mar 
jestic  elms.  An  avenue  of  lime  trees,  whose  branches 
intertwine  so  as  to  form  a  complete  bower  of  over- 
arching foliage,  extends  from  the  gate  of  the  cemetery 
to  the  principal  entrance  to  the  church.  In  a  still 
summer's  day  no  sounds  disturb  the  sacred  solitude, 
save  the  low  murmur  of  the  river,  which  flows  within 
a  few  yards  of  the  poets  grave.  That  it  was  not  a 
matter  of  indifference,  where  his  ashes  should  repose, 
is  sufficiently  evinced  by  the  inscription  with  which  he 
sought,  not  ineffectually,  to  protect  the  slumbers  of 
the  tomb  from  profane  intrusion.  \Yhen  it  was  once 
in  contemplation  to  remove  his  remains  to  West- 
minster Abbey,  the  awful  lines  upon  the  stone  availed 
to  retain  them,  where  alone  they  can  appropriately 
rest,  in  the  midst  of  those  scenes  which,  dear  to  him 
while  living,  are  now  imperishably  associated  with  his 
memory  —  where  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  river  as 
it  flows,  and  the  sighing  of  the  w^ind  among  the  ma- 
jestic elms  that  droop  their  branches  to  the  stream, 
seem  to  soothe  his  last  slumbers. 


TIME'S  SWIFTNESS. 


BY    R.    W.    SPENCER. 

Too  late  I  staid  ;  — forgive  the  crime,— 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours; 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 

That  only  treads  on  flowers ! 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbings  of  ihe  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 

Which  dazzle  as  they  pass? 

Oh!  who  to  sober  measurement 
Time's  happy  fleeiness  brings, 

When  Birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  for  his  wings  ! 


17* 


FREEDOM. 


BY    ALFRED    TENNYSON. 

Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought 
From  out  the  stoned  Past,  and  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turn'd  round  on  fixed  poles. 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends, 

Thy  i.M-others  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time, 
Nor  feed  wiih  crude  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble  wings, 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  task  of  might 

To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for  day. 

Though  sitting  girt  with  douhtlul  light. 


FREEDOM.  211 

Make  Knowledge  circle  with  the  winds  j 

But  let  her  herald,  Reverence,  fly 

Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  or  growth  of  minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the  years  : 

Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain  : 

But  gentle  words  are  always  gain  : 
Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers: 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 

Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise  : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days  : 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  overmuch  ; 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw  ; 

Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term  ; 

Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but  firm  : 
And  in  its  season  bring  the  law ; 

That  from  Discussion's  lips  may  fall 

AVith  Life,  that,  working  strougly,  binds  — 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds. 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm, 

And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long, 

Thro'  many  agents  making  strong. 
Matures  the  individual  form. 

3Ieet  is  it  changes  should  control 

Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 

We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees, 
All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 


212  friendship's  gift. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To  ingroove  itself  with  that,  which  flies, 
And  work  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy- 

A  saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act ; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals, 

Wherever  Thouglit  liath  wedded  Fact. 

Ev'n  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom  — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A  slow-developed  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a  painful  school  ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States  — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour. 
But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark ; 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes  aptly  join'd, 
Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  tiie  soul 

Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind ; 

A  wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires, 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head  ; 
To  shame  tlic  boasting  words,  we  said, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 


FREEDOM.  213 

Oil  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 

Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youtli, 

To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 
Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war  — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 
Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes, 
And  this  be  true  till  Time  shall  close, 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood  ; 

Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro'  shame  and  guilt, 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt. 

Would  pace  the  troubled  land  like  Peace  ; 

Not  less,  though  dogs  of  Faction  bay. 
Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and  word, 
Certain  if  knowledge  biing  the  sword. 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  away  — 

Would  love  the  gleam  of  good  that  broke 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes: 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should  rise. 

Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one  stroke  : 

.To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day. 
As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead. 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 
Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


TALE  OF  EXPIATION. 


BY    PROF.    WILSON. 


Margaret  Burxside  was  an  orphan.  Her  pa- 
rents, who  had  been  the  poorest  people  in  the  parish, 
had  died  when  she  was  a  mere  child  ;  and  as  thej  had 
left  no  near  relatives,  there  were  few  or  none  to  care 
much  about  the  desolate  creature,  who  might  be  well 
said  to  have  been  left  friendless  in  the  world.  True 
that  the  feeling  of  charity  is  seldom  wholly  wanting 
in  any  heart ;  but  it  is  generally  but  a  cold  feeling 
among  hard-working  folk,  towards  objects  out  of  the 
narrow  circle  of  their  OAvn  family  affections,  and  sel« 
fishness  has  a  ready  and  strong  excuse  in  necessity. 
There  seems,  indeed,  to  be  a  sort  of  chance  in  the  lot 
of  the  orphan  offspring  of  paupers.  On  some  the 
eye  of  Christian  benevolence  falls  at  the  very  first  mo- 
ment of  their  uttermost  destitution  —  and  their  worst 
sorrows,  instead  of  beginning,  terminate  with  the  tears 
shed  over  their  parents'  graves.  They  are  taken  by 
the  hands,  as  soon  as  their  hands  have  been  stretched 
out  for  protection,  and  admitted  as  inmates  mto  house- 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  215 

holds,  whose  doors,  had  their  fathers  and  mothers 
been  alive,  they  would  never  have  darkened.  The 
light  of  comfort  falls  upon  them  during  the  gloom  of 
grief,  and  attends  them  all  their  days.  Others,  again, 
are  overlooked  at  the  first  fall  of  affliction,  as  if  by 
some  unaccountable' fatality  ;  the  wretchedness  with 
which  all  have  become  familiar,  no  one  very  tenderly 
pities  ;  and  thus  the  orphan,  reconciling  herself  to  the 
extreme  hardships  of  her  condition,  lives  on  uncheered 
by  those  sympathies  out  of  which  grow  both  happiness 
and  virtue,  and  yielding  by  degrees  to  the  constant 
pressure  of  her  lot,  becomes  poor  in  spirit  as  in  estate, 
and  either  vegetates  like  an  almost  worthless  weed 
that  is  carelessly  trodden  on  by  every  foot,  or  if  by 
nature  born  a  flower,  in  time  loses  her  lustre,  and  all 
her  days  leads  the  life  not  so  much  of  a  servant  as  of 
a  slave. 

Such,  till  she  was  twelve  years  old,  had  been  the 
fate  of  jMargaret  Bumside.  Of  a  slender  form  and 
weak  constitution,  she  had  never  been  able  for  much 
work ;  and  thus  from  one  discontented  and  harsh 
master  and  mistress  to  another,  she  had  been  trans- 
ferred from  house  to  house  —  always  the  poorest  — 
till  she  came  to  be  looked  on  as  an  encumbrance 
rather  than  a  help  in  any  family,  and  thought  hardly 
worth  her  bread.  Sad  and  sickly  she  sat  on  the  braes, 
herding  the  kine.  It  was  supposed  that  she  was  in 
a  consumption  —  and  as  the  shadow  of  death  seemed 
to  He  on  the  neglected  creature's  face,  a  feelmg  some- 


216  friendship's  gift. 

thing  like  love  was  awakened  towards  her  in  the  heart 
of  pity,  for  which  she  showed  her  gratitude  by  still 
attending  to  all  household  tasks  with  an  alacrity  be- 
yond her  strength.     Few  doubted  that  she  was  dy- 
ing —  and  it  was  plain  that  she  thought  so  herself ; 
for  the  Bible,  which,  in  her  friendlessness,  she  had 
always  read  more   than  other  children  who  were  too 
happy  to  reflect  often  on  the  Word  of  that  Being  from 
whom  their  happiness  flowed,  was  now,  when  leisure 
permitted,  seldom  or  never  out  of  her  hands  ;  and  in 
lonely   places,  where   there  was   no   human   ear   to 
hearken,  did  the  dying  girl  often  support  her  heart, 
when  quaking  in  natural  fears  of  the  grave,  by  sing- 
ing to  herself  hymns  and  psalms.     But  her  hour  was 
not  yet  come  —  though  by  the  inscrutable  decrees  of 
Providence  doomed  to  be  hideous  with  almost  inexpi- 
able guilt.     As  for  herself — she  was  innocent  as  the 
linnet  that  sang  beside  her  in  the  broom,  and  inno- 
cent was  she  to  be  up  to  the  last  throbbings  of  her  re- 
ligious heart.     When  the  suhsnine  fell  upon  the  leaves 
of  her  Bible,  the  orphan  seemed  to  see  in  the  holy 
words,  brightening  through  the  radiance,  assurances 
of  forgiveness  of  all  her  sins  —  small  sms  indeed  — 
yet    to   her   humble  and   contrite   heart    exceeding 
great  —  and  to  be  pardoned  only  by  the  intercession 
of  Him  who  died  for  us  on  the  tree.     Often,  when 
clouds  were  in  the  sky,  and  blackness  covered  the 
Book,   hope  died  away  from  the  discolored  page  — 
and  the  lonely  creature  wept  and  sobbed  over  the 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION. 


21*? 


doom  denounced  on  all  who  sin  and  repent  not  — 
whether  m  deed  or  in  thought.  And  thus  religion 
became  within  her  an  awful  thing  —  till,  in  her  resig- 
nation, she  feared  to  die.  But  look  on  that  flow^er  by 
the  hill-side  path,  withered,  as  it  seems,  bej^ond  the 
power  of  sun  and  air  and  dew  and  rain  to  restore  it 
to  hfe.  Next  day,  you  happen  to  return  to  the  place, 
its  leaves  are  of  a  dazzling  green,  its  blossoms  of  a 
dazzling  crimson.  So  it  was  with  this  orphan.  Na- 
ture, as  if  kindling  towards  her  in  sudden  love,  not 
only  restored  her  in  a  few  weeks  to  life  —  but  to  per- 
fect health  ;  and  ere  long  she,  whom  few  had  looked 
at,  and  for  w^hom  still  fewer  cared,  was  acknowledged 
to  be  the  fairest  girl  in  all  the  parish  —  while  she 
continued  to  sit,  as  she  had  alwaj^s  done  from  her  very 
childhood,  on  the  'poor' %  form  in  the  lobby  of  the  kirk. 
Such  a  face,  such  a  figure,  and  such  a  manner,  in  one 
so  poorly  attired  and  so  meanly  placed,  attracted  the 
eyes  of  the  yonng  ladies  in  the  Patron's  Gallery. 
Margaret  Burnside  was  taken  under  their  especial 
protection  —  sent  for  two  years  to  a  superior  school, 
where  she  was  taught  all  things  useful  for  persons  in 
humble  life  —  and  wliile  yet  scarcely  fifteen,  return- 
mg  to  her  native  parish,  was  appointed  teacher  of  a 
small  school  of  her  own,  to  w^hich  were  sent  all  the 
girls  who  could  be  spared  from  home,  from  those  of 
parents  poor  as  her  own  had  been,  up  to  those  of  the 
farmers  and  small  proprietors,  who  knew  the  blessings 
of  a  good  education  —  and  that  without  it  the  min- 
18 


218  friendship's  gift. 

ister  may  preach  in  vain.  And  thus  Margaret  Bum- 
side  grew  and  blossomed  like  the  lily  of  the  field  — 
and  every  eye  blessed  her  —  and  she  drew  her  breath 
in  gi*atitude,  piety,  and  peace. 

Thus  a  few  happy  and  useful  years  passed  by  — 
and  it  was  forgotten  by  all  —  but  herself —  that  Mar- 
garet Burnside  was  an  orphan.  But  to  be  without 
one  near  and  dear  blood-relative  in  all  the  world,  must 
often,  even  to  the  happy  heart  of  youthful  innocence, 
be  more  than  a  pensive  —  a  painful  thought;  and 
therefore,  though  Margaret  Burnside  was  always 
cheerful  among  her  little  scholars,  yet  in  the  retire- 
ment of  her  own  room,  (a  pretty  parlor,  with  a  window 
looking  into  a  flower-garden,)  and  on  her  walks  among 
the  braes,  her  mien  was  somewhat  melancholy,  and 
her  eyes  wore  that  touching  expression,  which  seems 
doubtfully  to  denote  — neither  joy  nor  sadness  —  but 
a  habit  of  soul  which,  in  its  tranquility,  still  partakes 
of  the  moui-nful,  as  if  memory  dwelt  often  on  past 
sorrows,  and  hope  scai'cely  ventured  to  indulge  in 
dreams  of  future  repose.  That  profound  orphan-feel- 
ing embued  her  whole  character ;  and  sometimes, 
when  the  yoimg  ladies  from  the  castle  smiled  praises 
upon  her,  she  retired  in  gratitude  to  her  chamber  — 
and  wept. 

Among  the  friends  at  whose  houses  she  visited,  were 
the  family  at  INIoorsidc,  the  highest  hill-farm  in  the 
parish,  and  on  which  her  father  had  been  a  hind.  It 
consisted  of  the  master,  a  man  whose  head  was  gray. 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  219 

his  son  and  daughter,  and  a  grandchild,  her  scholar, 
whose  parents  were  dead.  Gilbert  Adamson  had  long 
been  a  widower  —  indeed  his  wife  had  never  been 
in  the  parish,  but  had  died  abroad.  lie  had  been 
a  soldier  in  his  youth  and  prime  of  manhood ;  and 
when  he  came  to  settle  at  Moorside,  he  had  been 
looked  at  with  no  very  friendlj^  eyes  ;  for  evil  rumors 
of  his  character  had  preceded  his  arrival  there — and 
in  that  peaceful  pastoral  parish,  far  removed  from 
the  world's  strife,  suspicions,  without  any  good  reason 
perhaps,  had  attached  themselves  to  the  morahty  and 
religion  of  a  man,  who  had  seen  much  foreign  service, 
and  had  passed  the  best  years  of  his  life  in  the  wars. 
It  was  long  before  these  suspicions  faded  away,  and 
with  some  they  still  existed  in  an  invincible  feeling  of 
dishke  or  even  aversion.  But  the  natural  fiercenesd' 
and  ferocity  which,  as  these  peaceful  dwellers  among 
the  hills  imagined,  had  at  first,  in  spite  of  his  eiforts 
to  control  them,  often  dangerously  exibited  themselves 
in  fiery  outbreaks,  advancing  age  had  gradually  sub- 
dued ;  Gilbert  Adamson  had  grown  a  hard-working 
and  industrious  man;  aifected,  if  he  followed  it  not  in 
sincerity,  even  an  austerely  religious  Hfe  ;  and  as  he 
possessed  more  than  common  sagacity  and  inteUigence, 
he  had  acquired  at  last,  if  not  won,  a  certain  ascen- 
dency in  the  parish,  even  over  many  whose  hearts 
never  opened  nor  warmed  towards  him  —  so  that  he 
was  now  an  elder  of  the  kirk  —  and,  as  the  most  un- 
wilUng  were  obliged  to  acknowledge,  a  just  steward  to 


230  FEIENDSHIP'S    GIFT. 

the  poor.  His  gray  hairs  were  not  honored,  but  it 
would  not  be  too  much  to  say  that  they  were  re- 
spected. Many  who  had  doubted  him  before,  came 
to  think  they  had  done  him  injustice,  and  sought  to 
wipe  away  their  fault  by  regarding  him  with  esteem, 
and  showing  themselves  wilhng  to  interchange  neigh- 
borly kindnesses  and  services  with  all  the  family  at 
Moorside.  His  son,  though  somewhat  wild  and  un- 
steady, and  too  much  addicted  to  the  fascinating  pas- 
times of  flood  and  field,  often  so  ruinous  to  the  sons  of 
labor,  and  rarely  long  pursued  against  the  law  without 
vitiatins:  the  whole  character,  was  a  favorite  with  all 
the  parish.  Singularly  handsome,  and  with  manners 
above  his  birth,  Ludovic  was  welcome  wherever  he 
went,  both  with  young  and  old.  No  merry-making 
could  deserve  the  name  without  him  ;  and  at  all  meet- 
ings for  the  display  of  feats  of  strength  and  agihty, 
far  and  wide,  through  more  counties  than  one,  he  was 
the  champion.  Nor  had  he  received  a  mean  educa- 
tion. All  that  the  parish  schoolmaster  could  teach 
he  knew  ;  and  having  been  the  darling  com]  anion  of 
all  the  gentlemen's  sons  in  the  Manse,  the  faculties  of 
his  mind  had  kept  pace  with  theirs,  and  from  them  he 
had  caught  unconsciously  that  demeanor  so  far  supe- 
rior to  what  could  have  been  expected  from  one  in  liis 
humble  condition,  but  which,  at  the  same  time,  seemed 
so  congenial  with  his  happy  nature  as  to  be  readily 
acknowledged  to  be  one  of  its  original  gifts.  Of  his 
sister,  Alice,  it  is  sufficient  to  say,  that  she  was  the 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  221 

bosom  friend  of  Margaret  Burnside,  and  that  all  who 
saw  their  friendship  felt  that  it  was  just.  The  small, 
parentless  grand-daughter  was  also  dear  to  Mar- 
garet —  more  than  perhaps  her  heart  knew,  because 
that,  like  herself,  she  was  an  orphan.  But  the  crear 
ture  was  also  a  merry  and  a  madcap  child,  and  her 
freakish  pranks,  and  playful  perversenesses,  as  she 
tossed  her  head  in  un tameable  glee,  and  went  dancing 
and  singing,  like  a  bird  on  the  boughs  of  a  tree,  all 
day  long,  by  some  strange  sympathies  entirely  won 
the  heart  of  her  who,  throughout  all  her  own  child- 
hood, had  been  familiar  with  grief,  and  a  lonely 
shedder  of  tears.  And  thus  did  Margaret  love  her, 
it  might  be  said,  even  with  a  very  mother's  love. 
She  generally  passed  her  free  Saturday  afternoons 
at  Moorside,  and  often  slept  there  all  night  with 
httle  Ann  in  her  bosom.  At  such  times  Ludovic 
was  never  from  homo,  and  many  a  Sabbath  he  walked 
with  her  to  the  kirk  —  all  the  family  together  —  and 
once  by  themselves  for  miles  along  the  moor  —  a  fore- 
noon of  perfect  sunshine,  which  returned  upon  him 
in  his  agony  on  his  dying  day. 

No  one  said,  no  one  thought  that  Ludovic  and 
Margaret  were  lovers  —  nor  were  they,  though  well 
worthy  indeed  of  each  other's  love  ;  for  the  orphan's 
whole  heart  was  filled  and  satisfied  with  a  sense  of 
duty,  and  all  its  affections  were  centered  in  her 
school,  where  all  eyes  blessed  her,  and  where  she  had 
been  placed  for  the  good  of  all  those  gladsome  crea- 
18* 


223  FRIEiNDSHIP's    GIFT. 

tures,  by  them  who  had  rescued  her  from  the  penury 
that  kills  the  soul,  and  ^hose  gracious  bounty  she 
remembered  even  in  her  sleep.  In  her  pra^  ers  she 
beseeched  God  to  bless  them  rather  than  the  wretch 
on  her  knees  —  their  images,  their  names,  were  ever 
before  her  eyes  and  on  her  ear ;  and  next  to  that 
peace  of  mind  which  passeth  all  understanding,  and 
comes  from  the  footstool  of  God  into  the  humble, 
lowly,  and  contrite  heart,  was  to  that  orphan,  day  and 
night,  waking  or  sleeping,  the  bliss  of  her  gratitude. 
And  thus  Ludovic  to  her  was  a  brother,  and  no  more ; 
a  name  sacred  as  that  of  sister,  by  which  she  always 
called  her  AHce,  and  was  so  called  in  return.  But  to 
Ludovic,  who  had  a  soul  of  fire,  Margaret  was  dearer 
far  than  ever  sister  was  to  the  brother  whom,  at  the 
sacrifice  of  her  own  life,  she  might  have  rescued 
from  death.  Go  where  he  might,  a  phantom  was  at 
his  side  —  a  pale  fair  face  forever  fixed  its  melan- 
cholly  eyes  on  his,  as  if  foreboding  something  dismal 
even  when  they  faintly  smiled  ;  and  once  he  awoke  at 
midnight,  when  all  the  house  were  asleep,  crying  with 
shrieks,  "  Oh,  God  of  mercy  !  Margaret  is  mur- 
dered !  "  Mysterious  passion  of  love  !  that  darkens 
its  own  dreams  of  delight  with  unimaginable  horrors ! 
Shall  we  call  such  dire  bewilderment  the  superstition 
of  troubled  fantasy,  or  the  inspiration  of  the  [rophetic 
soul ! 

From  what  seemingly  insignificant  sources  —  and 
by   means  of  what  humble   instruments  —  may  this 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  223 

life's  best  happiness  be  diffused  over  the  households 
of  industrious  men !  Here  ^vas  the  orphan  daughter 
of  forgotten  paupers,  both  dead  ere  she  could  speak  ; 
herself,  during  all  her  melancholy  childhood,  a  pauper 
even  more  enslaved  than  ever  they  had  been  —  one 
of  the  most  neglected  and  unvalued  of  all  God's  crea- 
tures—  who,  had  she  then  died,  would  have  been 
buried  in  some  nettled  nook  of  the  kirkyard,  nor  her 
grave  been  watered  almost  by  one  single  tear  —  sud- 
denly brought  out  from  the  cold  and  cruel  shade  in 
which  she  had  been  withering  away,  by  the  interposi- 
tion of  human  but  angelic  hauls,  into  the  heaven's 
most  gracious  sunshine,  where  all  at  once  her  beauty 
blossomed  like  the  rose.  She,  who  for  so  many  years 
had  been  even  begrudgingly  fed  on  the  poorest  and 
scantiest  fare,  by  Penury  ungrateful  for  all  her  weak 
but  zealous  efforts  to  please  by  domg  her  best,  in  sick- 
ness and  sorrow,  at  all  her  tasks,  in  or  out  of  doors, 
and  in  all  weathers,  however  rough  and  severe  — 
was  now  raised  to  the  rank  of  a  moral,  intellectual 
and  religious  being,  and  presided  over,  tended  and 
instructed  many  little  ones,  far,  far  happpier  m  their 
childhood  than  it  had  been  her  lot  to  be,  and  all 
growing  up  beneath  her  now  untroubled  eyes,  in  in- 
nocence, love  and  joy  inspired  into  their  hearts  by 
her,  their  young  and  happy  benefactress.  Not  a 
human  dwelling  in  all  the  parish,  that  had  not  reason 
to  bo  thankful  to  Margaret  Burnside.  She  taught 
them  to  be  pleasant  in  their  manners,  neat  in  their 


224  friendship's  gift. 

persons,  rational  in  their  minds,  pure  in  their  hearts, 
and  industrious  in  all  their  habits.  Rudeness,  coarse- 
ness, sullenness,  all  angry  fits,  and  all  idle  disposi- 
tions—  the  besetting  vices  and  sins  of  the  children 
of  the  poor,  whose  home-education  is  often  so  miser- 
ably, and  almost  necessarily  neglected  —  did  this 
sweet  teacher,  by  the  divine  influence  of  meekness 
never  ruffled,  and  tenderness  never  troubled,  m  a  few 
months  subdue  and  overcome  —  till  her  school-room, 
every  day  in  the  week,  was  in  its  cheerfulness,  sacred 
as  a  Sabbath,  and  murmured  from  morn  till  eve  with 
the  hum  of  perpetual  haj^piness.  The  effects  were 
soon  felt  in  every  house.  All  floors  were  tidier,  and 
order  and  regularity  enlivened  every  hearth.  It  was 
the  pride  of  her  scholars  to  get  their  own  little  gar- 
dens behind  their  parents'  huts,  to  bloom  like  that  of 
the  brae  —  and,  in  imitation  of  that  flowry  porch,  to 
train  up  the  pretty  creepers  on  the  wall.  In  the  kirk- 
yard,  a  smiling  group  every  Sabbath  forenoon  waited 
for  her  at  the  gate  —  and  walked,  Avith  her  at  their 
head,  into  the  house  of  God  —  a  beautiful  procession 
to  all  their  parents'  eyes  —  one  by  one  dropping  away 
into  their  own  seats,  as  the  band  moved  along  the 
httle  lobby,  and  the  minister  sitting  in  the  pulpit  all 
the  while,  looked  solemnly  down  upon  the  fair  flock  — 
the  shepherd  of  their  souls  ! 

It  w^as  Sabbath,  but  Margaret  Burnside  was  not  in 
the  kirk.  The  congregation  had  risen  to  join  in 
prayer,  when  the  great  door  was  thrown  open,  and  a 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  225 

■woman  apparelled  as  for  the  house  of  worship,  but 
wild  and  ghastly  in  her  face  and  eyes,  as  a  maniac 
hunted  by  evil  spirits,  burst  in  upon  the  service,  and, 
with  uplifted  hands,  beseeched  the  man  of  God  to  for- 
give her  irreverent  entrance,  for  that  the  foulest  and 
most  unnatural  murder  had  been  done,  and  that  her 
own  eyes  had  seen  the  corpse  of  ]Margaret  Burnside 
lying  on  the  moor  in  a  pool  of  blood  !  The  congrega- 
tion gave  one  groan,  and  then  an  outcry  as  if  the 
roof  of  the  kirk'  had  been  toppling  over  their  heads. 
All  cheeks  waxed  white,  women  fainted,  and  the 
firmest  heart  quaked  with  terror  and  pity,  as  once 
and  again  the  affrighted  witness,  in  the  same  words, 
described  the  horrid  spectacle,  and  then  rushed  out 
into  the  open  air,  followed  by  himdreds,  who  for  some 
minutes  had  been  palsy-striken  ;  and  now  the  kirkyard 
was  all  in  a  tumult  round  the  body  of  her  who  lay 
in  a  swoon.  In  the  midst  of  that  dreadful  ferment, 
there  were  voices  crying  aloud  that  the  poor  woman 
was  mad,  and  that  such  horror  could  not  be  beneath 
the  sun  ;  for  such  a  perpetration  on  the  Sabbath-day, 
and  first  heard  of  just  as  the  prayers  of  his  people 
were  about  to  ascend  to  the  Father  of  all  mercies, 
shocked  belief,  and  doubt  struggled  with  despair  as  in 
the  helpless  shudderings  of  some  dream  of  blood. 
The  crowd  were  at  last  prevailed  on  by  their  pastor 
to  disperse,  and  sit  down  on  the  tombstones,  and 
water  being  sprinkled  over  the  face  of  her  who  still 
lay  in  that  mortal  swoon,  and  the  air  suffered  to  cir- 


226  friendship's  gift. 

culate  freely  round  her,  she  again  opened  her  glassy 
eyes,  and  raising  herself  on  her  elbow,  stared  on  the 
multitude,  all  gathered  there  so  wan  and  silent,  and 
shrieked  out,  "■  The  Day  of  Judgment !  The  Day 
of  Judgment!  " 

The  aged  minister  raised  her  on  her  feet,  and  led 
her  to  a  grave,  on  which  she  sat  down,  and  hid  her 
face  on  his  knees.  "  0  that  I  should  have  lived  to 
see  the  day  —  but  dreadful  are  the  decrees  of  the 
Most  High  —  and  she  whom  we  all  loved  has  been 
cruelly  murdered !  Carry  me  with  you,  people,  and 
I  will  show  you  where  lies  her  corpse." 

"  Where  —  where  is  Ludovic  Adamson  ?  "  cried  a 
hoarse  voice  which  none  there  had  ever  heard  before  ; 
and  all  eyes  were  turned  in  one  direction ;  but  none 
knew  who  had  spoken,  and  all  again  was  hush. 
Then  all  at  once  a  hundred  voices  repeated  the  same 
words,  ^' Where  —  where  is  Ludovic  Adamson?" 
and  there  was  no  reply.  Then,  indeed,  was  the  kirk- 
yard  in  an  angiy  and  a  wrathful  ferment,  and  men 
looked  far  into  each  other's  eyes  for  confirmation  of 
their  suspicions.  And  there  was  whispering  about 
things,  that,  though  in  themselves  light  as  air,  seemed 
now  charged  with  hideous  import ;  and  then  arose 
sacred  appeals  to  heaven's  eternal  justice,  horridly 
mingled  with  oaths  and  curses ;  and  all  the  crowd, 
springing  to  their  feet,  pronounced,  "  that  no  other 
but  he  could  be  the  murderer." 

It   was   remembered   now,  that   for   months    past 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  227 

Margaret  Burnside  had  often  looked  melancholy  — 
that  her  visits  had  been  less  frequent  to  Moorside  ; 
and  one  person  in  the  crowd  said,  that  a  few  weeks 
ago  she  had  come  upon  them  suddenly  in  a  retired 
place,  when  Margaret  was  weeping  bitterly,  and  Lu- 
dovic  tossing  his  arms,  seemingly  in  wrath  and  dis- 
traction. All  agreed  that  of  late  he  had  led  a  dis- 
turbed and  reckless  life  —  and  that  something  dark 
and  suspicious  had  hung  about  him,  wherever  he 
went,  as  if  he  were  haunted  by  an  evil  conscience. 
But  did  not  strange  men  sometimes  pass  through  the 
Moor — squaHd  mendicants,  robber-hke,  from  the  far- 
off  city  —  one  by  one,  yet  seemingly  belonging  to  the 
same  gang  —  with  bludgeons  hi  their  hands  —  half- 
naked,  and  often  drunken  in  their  hunger,  as  at  the 
doors  of  lonesome  houses  they  demanded  alms  ;  or 
more  Hke  foot-pads  than  beggars,  with  stern  gestures, 
rising  up  from  the  ditches  on  the  way-side,  stopped 
the  frightened  women  and  children  going  upon 
errands,  and  thanklessly  received  pence  from  the 
poor  ?  One  of  them  must  have  been  the  murderer  ! 
But,  then,  again  the  whole  tide  of  suspicion  would  set 
in  upon  Ludovic  —  her  lover  ;  for  the  darker  and 
more  dreadful  the  guilt,  the  more  welcome  is  it  to  the 
fears  of  the  imagination  when  its  waking  dreams  are 
floating  m  blood. 

A  tall  figure  came  forward  from  the  porch,  and  all 
was  silence  when  the  congregation  beheld  the  father 
of  the  suspected  criminal.     He  stood  still  as  a  tree  in 


FRIENDSHIP  S    GIFT. 

a  calm  day  —  trunk,  limbs,  moved  not  —  and  his  gray 
head  was  uncovered.  He  then  stretched  out  his  arm, 
not  in  an  imploring,  but  in  a  commanding  attitude, 
and  essaj^ed  to  speak ;  but  his  white  lips  quivered, 
and  his  tongue  refused  its  office.  At  last,  almost 
fiercely,  he  uttered,  "  Who  dares  denounce  my  son  ?  " 
and  like  the  growling  thunder,  the  crowd  cried, 
"  All  —  all —  he  is  the  murderer!  "  Some  said  that 
tiie  old  man  smiled ;  but  it  could  have  been  but  a 
convulsion  of  the  features  —  outraged  nature's  wrung- 
out  and  writhing  expression  of  disdain,  to  show  how  a 
father's  love  brooks  the  cruelty  of  foolish  falsehood 
and  injustice. 

IMen,  women,  and  children  —  all  whom  gi-ief  and 
horror  had  not  made  helpless  —  moved  away  towards 
the  Moor  —  the  woman  who  had  seen  the  sight  lead- 
ing the  way ;  for  now  her  whole  strength  had  re- 
turned to  her,  and  she  was  drawn  and  driven  by  an 
irresistible  passion  to  look  again  at  what  had  almost 
destroyed  her  judgment.  Now  they  were  miles  from 
the  kirk,  and  over  some  brushwood,  at  the  edge  of 
the  morass,  some  distance  from  the  common  footpath, 
crows  were  seen  diving  and  careering  in  the  air,  and 
a  raven  flapping  suddenly  out  of  the  covert,  sailed 
away  with  a  savage  croak  along  a  range  of  cliffs. 
The  whole  multitude  stood  stock-still  at  that  carrion 
sound.  The  guide  said  shudderingly,  in  a  low  hur- 
ried voice,  "See,  see  —  that  is  her  mantle  "  —  and 
there  indeed  Margaret  lay,  all  in  a  heap,  maimed, 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  229 

mangled,  murdered,  with  a  hundred  gashes.  The 
corpse  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  baked  in  frost,  and 
was  embedded  in  coagulated  blood.  Shreds  and 
patches  of  her  dress,  torn  away  from  her  bosom,  be- 
strewed the  bushes  —  for  many  yards  round  about, 
there  had  been  the  trampling  of  feet,  and  a  long  lock 
of  hair  that  had.  been  torn  from  her  temples,  with  the 
dews  yet  unmelted  on  it,  was  lying  upon  a  plant  of 
broom,  a  httle  way  from  the  corpse.  The  first  one  to 
lift  the  body  from  the  horrid  bed  was  Gilbert  Adam- 
son.  He  had  been  long  familiar  with  death  in  all  its 
ghastliness,  and  all  had  now  looked  to  him — forget- 
ting for  the  moment  that  he  was  the  father  of  the 
murderer  —  to  perform  the  task  from  which  they  re- 
coiled in  horror.  Resting  on  one  knee,  he  placed  the 
corpse  on  the  other  —  and  who  could  have  believed, 
that  even  the  most  violent  and  cruel  death  could  have 
wrought  such  a  change  on  a  face  once  so  beautiful ! 
All  was  distortion  —  and  terrible  it  was  to  see  the 
dim  glazed  eyes,  fixedly  open,  and  the  orbs  insensible 
to  the  strong  sun  that  smote  her  face  white  as  snow 
among  the  streaks  as  if  left  by  bloody  fingers  !  Her 
throat  was  all  discolored  —  and  a  silk  handkerchief 
twisted  into  a  cord,  that  had  manifestly  been  used  in  the 
murder,  was  of  a  redder  hue  than  when  it  had  veiled 
her  breast.  No  one  knows  what  horror  his  eyes  are 
able  to  look  on,  till  they  are  tried.  A  circle  of  stupe- 
fied gazers  was  drawn  by  a  horrid  fascination  closer 
and  closer  round  the  corpse  —  and  women  stood  there 
19 


230  friendship's  gift. 

holding  children  by  the  hands,  and  fainted  not,  but 
observed  the  sight,  and  shuddered  -without  shrieking, 
and  stood  there  all  dumb  as  ghosts.  But  the  body 
was  now  borne  along  by  many  hands  —  at  first  none 
knew  in  what  direction,  till  many  voices  muttered, 
''  To  Moorside  —  to  Moorside  "  —  and  in  an  hour  it 
was  laid  on  a  bed  in  which  Margaret  Burnside  had 
60  often  slept  with  her  beloved  little  Ann  m  her 
bosom. 

The  hand  of  some  one  had  thrown  a  cloth  over  the 
corpse.  The  room  was  filled  with  people  —  but  all 
their  power  and  capacity  of  horror  had  been  exhaust- 
ed —  and  the  silence  was  now  almost  like  that  which 
attends  a  natural  death,  when  all  the  neighbors  are 
assembled  for  the  funeral.  AHce,  with  httle  Ann 
beside  her,  kneeled  at  the  bed,  nor  feared  to  lean 
her  head  close  to  the  covered  corpse  —  sobbing  out 
syllables  that  showed  how  passionately  she  prayed  — 
and  that  she  and  her  little  neice  —  and,  oh  !  for  that 
unhappy  father  —  were  delivering  themselves  up  into 
the  hands  of  God.  The  father  knelt  not — neither 
did  he  sit  down  —  nor  move  —  nor  groan  —  but  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed^  with  arms  folded  almost 
sternly —  and  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  sheet,  in  which 
there  seemed  to  be  neither  ruth  nor  dread — but  only 
an  austere  composure,  which  were  it  indeed  but  resig- 
nation to  that  dismal  decree  of  Providence,  had  been 
most  sublime  —  but  who  can  see  into  the  heart  of  a 
man,  either  righteous  or  wicked,  and  know  what  may 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  231 

be  passing  there,  breathed  from  the  gates  of  heaven 
or  of  hell ! 

Soon  as  the  bodj  had  been  found,  shepherds  and 
herdsmen,  fleet  of  foot  as  the  deer,  had  set  off  to 
scour  the  country  far  and  wide,  hill  and  glen,  moun- 
tain and  morass,  moor  and  wood,  for  the  murderer. 
If  he  be  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  not  self-plunged 
in  despairing  suicide  into  some  quagmire,  he  will  be 
found  —  for  all  the  population  of  many  districts  are 
now  afoot,  and  precipices  are  climbed  till  now  brushed 
but  by  the  falcons.  A  figure  like  that  of  a  man,  is 
seen  by  some  of  the  hunters  from  a  hill-top,  lying 
among  the  stones  by  the  side  of  a  solitary  loch.  They 
separate,  and  descend  upon  him,  and  then  gathering 
in,  they  behold  the  man  whom  they  seek  —  Ludovic 
Adamson,  the  murderer. 

His  face  is  pale  and  haggard  —  yet  flushed  as  if 
by  a  fever  centered  in  his  heart.  That  is  no  dress 
for  the  Sabbath-day  —  soiled  and  savage-looking  — 
and  giving  to  the  eyes  that  search  an  assurance  of 
guilt.  He  starts  to  his  feet,  as  they  think,  like  some 
wild  beast  surprised  in  his  lair,  and  gathering  itself 
up  to  fight  or  fly.  But  —  strange  enormity  —  a  Bible 
is  in  his  hand  !  And  the  shepherd  who  first  seized  him, 
taking  the  book  out  of  his  grasp,  looks  into  the  page 
and  reads,  "  Whoever  sheddeth  man's  blood,  by  man 
shall  his  blood  be  surely  shed."  On  a  leaf  is  written, 
in  her  own  well-known  hand,  "  The  gift  of  Margaret 
Bumside  I  "     Not  a  word  is  said  by  his  captors  — 


232  friendship's  gift. 

they  offer  no  needless  violence  —  no  indignities  —  but 
answer  all  inquiries  of  surprise  and  astonishment  (Oh ! 
can  one  so  young  be  so  hardened  in  wickedness  !) 
by  a  stern  silence,   and  upbraiding  eyes,   that   like 
daggers  must  stab  his  heart.     At  last  he  walks  dog- 
gedly and  sullenly  along,  and  refuses  to  speak  —  yet 
his  tread  is  firm  —  there  is  no  want  of  composure  in 
his  face  —  now  that  the  first  passion  of  fear  or  anger 
has  left  it ;  and  now  that  they  have  the  murderer  in 
their   clutch,  some   begin  almost   to   pity  him,   and 
others  to  believe,  or  at  least  to  hope,  that  he  may  be 
innocent.     As  y^t  they  have  said  not  a  word  of  the 
crime  of  which  they  accuse  him ;  but  let  him  try  to 
master  the  expression  of  his  voice  and  eyes   as  he 
may,  guilt  is  in  those  stealthy  glances  —  guilt  is  in 
those  reckless  tones.     And  why  does  he  seek  to  hide 
his  right  hand  in  his  bosom  ?     And  whatever  he  may 
affect  to   say  —  they  ask  him  not  —  most  certainly 
that  stain  on  his  shirt-collar  is  blood.     But  now  they 
are  at  Moorside. 

There  is  still  a  great  crowd  all  round  about  the 
house  —  in  the  garden  —  and  at  the  door  —  and  a 
troubled  cry  announces  that  the  criminal  has  been 
taken,  and  is  close  at  hand.  His  father  meets  him  at 
the  gate  ;  and,  kneehng  down,  holds  up  his  clasped 
hands,  and  says,  "  My  son  if  thou  art  guilty,  confess, 
and  die."  The  criminal  angrily  waves  his  father 
aside,  and  walks  towards  the  door.  "  Fools  !  fools  ! 
what  mean  ye  by  this  ?     \Yhat  crime  has  been  com- 


TALE    OF   EXPIATION.  233 

mitted  ?  And  how  dare  ye  to  think  me  the  crimmal  ? 
Am  I  like  a  murderer?"  —  "We  never  spoke  to 
him  of  the  murder  —  we  never  spoke  to  him  of  the 
murder !  "  cried  one  of  the  men  who  now  held  him 
by  the  arm;  and  all  assembled  then  exclaimed, 
"  Guilty,  guilty  —  that  one  word  will  hang  him  ! 
Oh,  pity,  pity,  for  his  father  and  poor  sister  —  this 
will  break  their  hearts  !  "  Appalled,  yet  firm  of  foot, 
the  prisoner  forced  his  way  into  the  house,  and  turn- 
ing, in  his  confusion,  into  the  chamber  on  the  left, 
there  he  beheld  the  corpse  of  the  murdered,  on  the 
bed  —  for  the  sheet  had  been  removed  —  as  yet  not 
laid  out,  and  disfigured  and  deformed  just  as  she  had 
been  found  on  the  moor,  in  the  same  misshapen  heap 
of  death  !  One  long  insane  glare  —  one  shriek,  as  if 
all  his  heart-strings  at  once  had  burst  —  and  then 
down  fell  the  strong  man  on  the  floor  like  lead.  One 
trial  was  past  which  no  human  hardihood  could  en- 
dure—  another,  and  yet  another  awaits  him;  but 
them  he  will  bear  as  the  guilty  brave  have  often  borne 
them,  and  the  most  searching  eye  shall  not  see  him 
quail  at  the  bar  or  on  the  scaffold. 

They  lifted  the  stricken  wretch  from  the  floor, 
placed  him  in  a  chair,  and  held  him  upright,  till  he 
should  revive  from  the  fit.  And  he  soon  did  revive  ; 
for  health  flowed  in  all  his  veins,  and  he  had  the 
strength  of  a  giant.  But  when  his  senses  returned, 
there  was  none  to  pity  him  ;  for  the  shock  had  given 
an  expression  of  guilty  horror  to  all  his  looks,  and, 
19* 


234  friendship's  gift. 

like  a  man  walking  in  his  sleep,  under  the  temptation 
of  some  dreadful  dream,  he  moved  with  fixed  eyes 
towards  the  bed,  gobbled  in  hideous  laughter,  and 
then  wept  and  tore  his  hair  like  a  distracted  woman  or 
child.  Then  he  stooped  down  as  if  he  w^ould  kiss  the 
face,  but  staggered  back,  and,  covering  his  eyes  with 
his  hands,  uttered  such  a  groan  as  is  sometimes  heard 
rendmg  the  sinner's  breast  when  the  avenging  furies 
are  upon  him  in  his  dreams.  All  who  heard  it  felt 
that  he  was  guilty  ;  and  there  was  a  fierce  cry 
through  the  room  of  "  Make  him  touch  the  body,  and 
if  he  be  the  murderer,  it  will  bleed  !  "  —  "  Fear  not, 
Ludovic,  to  touch  it,  my  boy,"  said  his  father ; 
"  bleed  afresh  it  will  not,  for  thou  art  innocent :  and 
savage  though  now  they  be  who  once  were  proud  to 
be  thy  friends,  even  they  will  beheve  thee  guiltless 
when  the  corpse  refuses  to  bear  witness  against  thee, 
and  not  a  drop  leaves  its  quiet  heart !  "  But  his  son 
spake  not  a  word,  nor  did  he  seem  to  know  that  his 
father  had  spoken  ;  but  he  suffered  himself  to  be  led 
passively  towards  the  bed.  One  of  the  bystanders 
took  his  hand  and  placed  it  on  the  naked  breast, 
when  out  of  the  corners  of  the  teeth-clenched  mouth, 
and  out  of  the  swollen  nostrils,  two  or  three  blood- 
drops  visibly  oozed  ;  and  a  sort  of  shrieking  shout  de- 
clared the  sacred  faith  of  all  in  the  crowd  in  the 
dreadful  ordeal.  "  What  body  is  this  ?  'tis  all  over 
blood !  "  said  the  prisoner,  looking  with  an  idiot  va- 
cancy on  the  faces  that  surrounded  him.     But  now 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  235 

the  sheriff  of  the  county  entered  the  room,  along  -with 
some  officers  of  justice,  and  he  was  spared  any  further 
shocks  from  that  okl  saving  superstition.  His  wrists 
soon  after  were  manacled.  These  were  all  the  words 
he  had  uttered  since  he  recovered  from  the  fit ;  and 
he  seemed  now  in  state  of  stupor. 

Ludovic  Adamson,  after  examination  of  witnesses, 
who  crowded  against  him  from  many  unexpected 
quarters,  was  committed  that  very  Sabbath  night  to 
prison  on  a  charge  of  murder.  On  the  Tuesday  fol- 
lowing, the  remains  of  Margaret  Bumside  were  in- 
terred. All  the  parish  were  at  the  funeral.  In  Scot- 
land it  is  not  customary  for  females  to  join  in  the  last 
simple  ceremonies  of  death.  But  in  this  case  they 
did  ;  and  all  her  scholars,  in  the  same  white  dresses 
in  which  they  used  to  walk  with  her  at  their  head  into 
the  kirk  on  Sabbaths,  followed  the  bier.  Ahce  and 
little  Ann  were  there,  nearest  the  coffin,  and  the 
father  of  him  who  had  wrought  all  this  wo  was  one  of 
its  supporters.  The  head  of  the  murdered  girl  rested, 
it  might  be  said,  on  his  shoulder  —  but  none  can  know 
the  strength  which  God  gives  to  his  servants  —  and 
all  present  felt  for  him  as  he  walked  steadily  under 
that  dismal  burden,  a  pity,  and  even  an  affection, 
which  they  had  been  unable  to  yield  to  him  ere  he 
had  been  so  sorely  tried.  The  ladies  from  the  Castle 
were  among  the  other  mourners,  and  stood  by  the 
open  grave.  A  sunnier  day  had  never  shone  from 
heaven,  and   that  very  grave   itself  partook  of  the 


236  friendship's  gift* 

brightness,  as  the  coffin  —  with  the  gilt  letters, 
"Margaret  Burnside,  Aged  18" — was  let  do^Yn, 
and  in  the  darkness  below  disappeared.  No  flowers 
were  sprinkled  there  —  nor  afterwards  planted  on  the 
turf —  vain  offerings  of  unavailing  sorrow !  But  in 
that  nook  —  beside  the  bodies  of  her  poor  parents  -— 
she  was  left  for  the  grass  to  grow  over  her,  as  over 
the  other  humble  dead  ;  and  nothing  but  the  very 
simplest  headstone  was  placed  there,  with  a  sentence 
from  Scripture  below  the  name.  There  was  less 
weeping,  less  sobbing  than  at  many  other  funerals  ; 
for  as  sure  as  Mercy  ruled  the  skies,  all  beheved  that 
she  was  there  —  all  knew  it,  just  as  if  the  gates  of 
heaven  had  opened  and  showed  her  a  white-robed  spirit 
at  the  right  hand  of  the  throne.  And  why  should 
any  rueful  lamentation  have  been  wailed  over  the 
senseless  dust  ?  But  on  the  way  home,  over  the  hills, 
and  in  the  hush  of  evening  beside  their  hearth,  and  in 
the  stillness  of  night  on  their  beds  —  all  —  young  and 
old  —  all  did  nothing  but  weep  ! 

For  weeks  —  such  was  the  pity,  grief  and  awe  in- 
spired by  this  portentous  crime  and  lamentable  ca- 
lamity, that  all  the  domestic  on-goings  in  all  the 
houses  far  and  wide,  were  melancholy  and  mournful, 
as  if  the  country  had  been  fearing  a  visitation  of  the 
plague.  Sin,  it  was  felt,  had  brought  not  only  sorrow 
on  the  parish,  but  shame  that  ages  would  not  wipe 
away  ;  and  strangers,  as  they  travelled  through  the 
moor,  would  point  the  place  where  the  foulest  murder 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  237 

had  been  committed  in  all  the  annals  of  crime.  As 
for  the  family  at  Moorside,  the  daughter  had  their 
boundless  compassion,  though  no  eye  had  seen  her 
since  the  funeral ;  but  people,  in  speaking  of  the  far 
ther,  would  still  shake  their  heads,  and  put  their 
fingers  to  their  lips,  and  say  to  one  another,  in  whis- 
pers, that  Gilbert  Adamson  had  once  been  a  bold,  bad 
man  —  that  his  religion,  in  spite  of  all  his  repulsive 
austerity,  wore  not  the  aspect  of  truth —  and  that  had 
he  held  a  stricter  and  a  stronger  hand  on  the  errors  of 
his  misguided  son,  tliis  foul  deed  had  not  been  perpe- 
trated, nor  that  wretched  sinner's  soul  given  to  perdi- 
tion. Yet  others  had  gentler  and  humaner  thoughts. 
They  remembered  him  walking  along  God-supported 
beneath  the  bier  —  and  at  the  mouth  of  the  grave  — 
and  feared  to  look  on  that  head  —  formerly  grizzled, 
but  now  quite  gray  —  when  on  the  very  first  Sabbath  af- 
ter the  murder  he  took  his  place  in  the  elder's  seat,  and 
was  able  to  stand  up,  along  with  the  rest  of  the  con- 
gregation, when  tlie  minister  prayed  for  peace  to  his 
soul,  and  hoped  for  the  deliverance  out  of  jeopardy  of 
him  now  lying  in  bonds.  A  low  Amen  went  all  round 
the  kirk  at  these  words  ;  for  the  most  hopeless  called 
to  mind  that  maxim  of  law,  equity  and  justice  —  that 
every  man  under  accusation  of  crime  should  be  held 
innocent  till  he  is  proved  to  be  guilty.  Nay,  a  human 
tribunal  might  condemn  him,  and  yet  might  he  stand 
acquitted  before  the  tribunal  of  God. 

There  were  various  accounts  of  the  behavior  of  the 


238  friendship's  gift. 

prisoner.  Some  said  that  he  was  desperately  hard- 
ened—  others,  sunk  in  sullen  apathy  and  indifference 
—  and  one  or  two  persons  belonging  to  the  parish,  who 
had  seen  him,  declared  that  he  seemed  to  care  not 
for  himself,  but  to  be  plunged  in  profomid  melan- 
choly for  the  fate  of  Margaret  Burnside,  whose  name 
he  involuntarily  mentioned,  and  then  bowed  his  head 
on  his  kness  and  wept.  His  guilt  he  neither  admitted 
at  that  interview,  nor  denied  ;  but  he  confessed  that 
some  circumstances  bore  hard  against  him,  and  that 
he  was  prepared  for  the  event  of  his  trial  —  condem- 
nation and  death.  "  But  if  you  are  not  guilty,  Ludo- 
vic,  who  can  he  the  murderer?  Not  the  slightest 
shade  of  suspicion  has  fallen  on  any  other  person  — 

and  did  not,  alas  !  the  body  bleed  when  " The 

unhappy  wretch  sprang  up  from  the  bed,  it  was  said, 
at  these  words,  and  hurried  like  a  madman  back  and 
forward  along  the  stone  floor  of  his  cell.  "  Yea — 
yea!"  at  last  he  cried,  "the  mouth  and  nostrils  of 
my  Margaret  did  indeed  bleed  when  they  pressed 
down  my  hand  on  her  cold  bosom.  It  is  God's 
truth  !  "  "  God's  truth  ?  "  —  "  Yes  —  God's  truth. 
I  saw  first  one  drop,  and  then  another,  trickle  towards 
me  —  and  I  prayed  to  our  Saviour  to  wipe  them  off 
before  other  eyes  might  behold  the  dreadful  witnesses 
against  me  ;  but  at  that  hour  Heaven  was  most  un- 
merciful —  for  those  two  small  drops  —  as  all  of  you 
saw  —  soon  became  a  very  stream —  and  all  her  face, 
neck  and  breast  —  you  saw  it  as  well  as  I  miserable 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION. 


—  were  at  last  drenched  in  blood.  Then  I  may  have 
confessed  that  I  was  guilty  —  did  I,  or  did  I  not, 
confess  it  ?  Tell  me  —  for  I  remember  nothing  dis- 
tinctly :  —  but  if  I  did  —  the  judgment  of  offended 
Heaven,  then  punishing  me  for  my  sins,  had  made 
me  worse  than  mad  —  and  so  had  all  your  abhorrent 
eyes  ;  and,  men,  if  I  did  confess,  it  was  the  cruelty 
of  God  that  drove  me  to  it  —  and  your  cruelty  — 
which  was  great ;  for  no  pity  had  any  one  for  me  that 
day,  though  Margaret  Burnside  lay  before  me  a  mur- 
dered corpse  —  and  a  hoarse  whisper  came  to  my  ear 
ui'ging  me  to  confess  —  I  well  believe  from  no  human 
Hps,  but  from  the  Father  of  Lies,  who,  at  that  hour, 
was  suffered  to  leave  the  pit  to  ensnare  my  soul." 
Such  was  said  to  have  been  the  main  sense  of  what 
he  uttered  in  the  presence  of  two  or  three,  who  had 
formerly  been  among  his  most  intimate  friends,  and 
who  knew  not,  on  leaving  his  cell  and  coming  into 
the  open  air,  whether  to  think  him  innocent  or  guilty. 
As  long  as  they  thought  they  saw  his  eyes  regarding 
them,  and  that  they  heard  his  voice  speaking,  they 
behoved  him  innocent ;  but  when  the  expression  of 
the  tone  of  his  voice,  and  of  the  look  of  his  eyes  — 
which  they  had  felt  belonged  to  innocence  —  died 
away  from  their  memory  —  then  arose  against  him 
the  strong,  strange,  circumstantial  evidence,  which, 
wisely  or  unwisely  —  lawyers  and  judges  have  said 
cannot  lie  —  and  then,  in  their  hearts,  one  and  all 
of  them  pronounced  him  guilty. 


240  friendship's  gift. 

But  had  not  his  father  often  visited  the  prisoner's 
cell  ?  Once  —  and  once  only  ;  for  in  obedience  to 
his  son's  passionate  prayer,  beseeching  him — if  there 
were  any  mercy  left  either  on  earth  or  in  heaven  — 
never  more  to  enter  that  dungeon,  the  miserable  pa- 
rent had  not  again  entered  the  prison ;  but  he  had 
been  seen  one  morning  at  dawn,  by  one  who  knew  his 
person,  walking  round  and  round  the  walls,  stareing  up 
at  the  black  building  in  distraction,  especially  at  one 
small  grated  window  in  the  north  tower  —  and  it  is 
most  probable  that  he  had  been  pacing  his  rounds 
there  during  all  the  night.  Nobody  could  conjecture, 
however  dimly,  what  was  the  meaning  of  his  banish- 
ment from  his  son's  cell.  Gilbert  Adamson,  so  stem 
to  others,  even  to  his  own  onl}^  daughter,  had  been 
always  but  too  indulgent  to  his  Ludovic  —  and  had 
that  lost  wretch's  guilt,  so  exceeding  great,  changed 
his  heart  into  stone,  and  made  the  sight  of  his  old  far 
ther's  gray  hairs  hateful  to  his  eyes  ?  But  then  the 
jailer,  who  had  heard  him  imploring  —  beseeching  — 
commanding  his  father  to  remain  till  after  the  trial 
at  Moorside,  said,  that  all  the  while  the  prisoner 
sobbed  and  wept  like  a  child ;  and  that  when  he  un- 
locked the  door  of  the  cell,  to  let  the  old  man  out,  it 
was  a  hard  thing  to  tear  away  the  arms  and  hands  of 
Ludovic  from  his  knees,  while  the  father  sat  like  a 
stone  image  on  the  bed,  and  kept  his  tearless  eyes 
fixed  sternly  upon  the  wall,  as  if  not  a  soul  had  been 
present,  and  he  himself  had  been  a  criminal  con- 
demned next  day  to  die. 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  241 

The  father  had  obeyed,  religiously,  that  miserable 
injunction,  and  from  religion  it  seemed  he  had  found 
comfort.  For  Sabbath  after  Sabbath  he  was  at  the 
kirk  —  he  stood  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do  for  years, 
at  the  poor's  plate,  and  return  grave  salutations  to 
those  who  dropped  their  mite  into  the  small  sacred 
treasury  —  his  eyes  calmly,  and  even  critically,  re- 
garded the  pastor  during  the  prayer  and  sermon  — 
and  his  deep  bass  voice  was  heard,  as  usual,  through 
all  the  house  of  God  in  the  Psalms.  On  week-days, 
he  was  seen  by  passers-by  to  drive  his  flocks  afield, 
and  to  overlook  his  sheep  on  the  hill-pastures,  or  in 
the  pen-fold  ;  and  as  it  was  still  spring,  and  seed-time 
had  been  late  this  season,  he  was  observed  holding  the 
plough,  as  of  yore  ;  nor  had  his  skill  deserted  him  — 
for  the  furrows  were  as  straight  as  if  drawn  by  a  rule 
on  paper  —  and  soon  bright  and  beautiful  was  the 
braird  on  all  the  low  lands  of  his  farm.  The  Com- 
forter was  with  him,  and,  sorely  as  he  had  been  tried, 
his  heart  was  not  yet  wholly  broken ;  and  it  was  be- 
lieved that  for  years,  he  might  outhve  the  blow  that 
at  first  had  seemed  more  than  a  mortal  man  might 
bear  and  be  !  Yet  that  his  wo,  though  hidden,  was 
dismal,  all  ere  long  knew,  from  certain  tokens  that  in- 
trenched his  face  —  cheeks  shrunk  and  fallen  —  brow 
not  so  much  furrowed  as  scarred,  eyes  quenched,  hair 
thinner  and  thinner  far,  as  if  he  himself  had  torn  it 
away  in  handfuls  during  the  solitude  of  midnight  — 
and  now  absolutely  as  white  as  snow ;  and  over  the 
20 


242  friendship's  gift. 

whole  man  an  indescribable  ancientness  far  beyond  his 
years  —  though  they  were  many,  and  most  of  them 
had  been  passed  in  torrid  climes  —  all  showed  how 
grief  has  its  agonies  as  destructive  as  those  of  guilt, 
and  those  the  most  wasting  when  they  work  in  the 
heart  and  in  the  brain,  unrelieved  by  the  shedding  of 
one  single  tear  —  when  the  very  soul  turns  dry  as 
dust,  and  life  is  imprisoned,  rather  than  mingled,  in 
the  decaying  —  the  mouldering  body  ! 

The  Day  of  Trial  came,  and  all  labor  was  suspended 
in  the  parish,  as  if  it  had  been  a  mourning  fast.  Hun- 
dreds of  people  from  this  remote  district  poured  into 
the  circuit-town,  and  besieged  the  cour1>house.  Horse- 
men were  in  readiness,  soon  as  the  verdict  should  be 
returned,  to  carry  the  intelligence  —  of  life  or  death 

—  to  all  those  glens.  A  few  words  will  suffice  to  tell 
the  trial,  the  nature  of  the  evidence,  and  its  issue. 
The  prisoner,  who  stood  at  the  bar  in  black,  appeared 

—  thouglf  miserably  changed  from  a  man  of  great 
muscular  power  and  activity,  a  magnificent  man, 
into  a  tall  thin  shadow  —  perfectly  unappalled  ;  but 
in  a  face  so  white,  and  wasted,  and  wo-begone,  the 
most  profound  physiognomist  could  read  not  one 
faintest  symptom  either  of  hope  or  fear,  trembling  or 
trust,  guilt  or  innocence.  He  hardly  seemed  to  be- 
long to  this  world,  and  stood  fearfully  and  ghastly 
conspicuous  between  the  officers  of  justice,  above  all  the 
crowd  that  devoured  him  with  their  eyes,  all  leaning 
towards  the  bar  to  catch  the  first  sound  of  his  voice, 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  243 

when  to  the  indictment  he  should  plead  "  Not  Guilty." 
These  words  he  did  utter,  in  a  liollow  voice  altogether 
passionless,  and  then  was  suffered  to  sit  down,  which 
he  did  in  a  manner  destitute  of  all  emotion.  During 
all  the  many  long  hours  of  his  trial,  he  never  moved 
head,  limbs,  or  body  except  once,  when  he  drank 
some  water,  which  he  had  not  asked  for,  but  which 
was  given  to  him  by  a  friend.  The  evidence  was  en- 
tirely circumstantial,  and  consisted  of  a  few  damning 
facts,  and  of  many  of  the  very  slightest  sort,  which, 
taken  singly,  seemed  to  mean  nothing,  but  which, 
when  considered  all  together,  seemed  to  mean  some- 
thing against  him — how  much,  or  how  little,  there 
were  among  the  agitated  audience  many  differing 
opinions.  But  slight  as  they  were,  either  singly  or 
togctlier,  they  told  fearfully  against  the  prisoner, 
when  connected  with  the  fatal  few  which  no  ingenuity 
could  ever  explain  away  —  and  though  ingenuity  did 
all  it  could  do,  when  wielded  by  eloquence  of  the 
highest  order  —  and  as  the  prisoner's  counsel  sat 
down,  there  went  a  rustle  and  a  buzz  through  the 
court,  and  a  communication  of  looks  and  whispers, 
that  seemed  to  denote  that  there  were  hopes  of  his 
acquittal  —  yet,  if  such  hopes  there  were,  they  were 
deadened  by  the  recollection  of  the  calm,  clear,  logi- 
cal address  to  the  jury  by  the  counsel  for  the  crown, 
and  destroyed  by  the  judge's  charge,  which  amounted 
almost  to  demonstration  of  guilt,  and  concluded  with  a 
confession  due  to  his  oath  and  conscience,  that  he  saw 


244  friendship's  gift. 

not  how  the  jury  could  do  their  duty  to  their  Creator 
and  their  fellow-creatures,  but  by  returning  one  ver- 
dict. They  retired  to  consider  it ;  and,  during  a 
death-like  silence,  all  eyes  were  bent  on  ^  death-like 
image. 

It  had  appeared  in  evidence,  that  the  murder  had 
been  committed,  at  least  all  the  gashes  inflicted  —  for 
there  were  also  finger-marks  of  strangulation  —  with 
a  bill-hook,  such  as  foresters  use  in  lopping  trees  ;  and 
several  witnesses  swore  that  the  bill-hook  which  was 
shown  them,  stained  with  blood,  and  with  hair  stick- 
ing on  the  haft  —  belonged  to  Ludovic  Adamson.     It 
was  also  given  in  evidence  —  though  some  doubts  rest- 
ed on  the  nature  of  the  precise  words  —  that  on  that 
day,  in  the  room  with  the  corpse,  he  had  given  a  wild 
and  incoherent  denial  to  the  question  then  put  to  Ir.m 
in  the  din,  "  What  he  had  done  with  the  bill-hook." 
Nobody  had  seen  it  in  his  possession  since  the  spring 
before  ;  but  it  had  been  found,  after  several  weeks' 
search,  in  a  hag  in  the  moss,  in  the  direction  that  he 
would  have  most  probably  taken  —  had  he  been  the 
murderer  —  when  flying  from  the   spot  to  the  loch 
where  he  was  seized.     The  shoes  which  he  had  on 
when  taken,  fitted   the  foot-marks  on  the  ground,  not 
far  from  the  place  of  the  murder,  but  not  so  perfectly 
as  another  pair  which  were  found  in  the  house.     But 
that  other  pair,  it  was  proved,  belonged  to  the  old 
man  ;  and  therefore  the  correspondence  between  the 
foot-marks  and  the  prisoner's  shoes,  though  not  per- 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  245 

feet,  was  a  circumstance  of  much  suspicion.  But  a 
far  stronger  fact,  in  this  part  of  the  evidence,  was 
sworn  to  against  the  prisoner.  Though  there  was  no 
blood  on  his  shoes  —  when  apprehended  his  legs  were 
bare  —  though  that  circumstance,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  had  never  been  noticed  till  he  was  on  the  way 
to  prison  !  His  stockings  had  been  next  day  found 
lying  on  the  sward,  near  the  .  shore  of  the  loch,  mani- 
festly after  having  been  washed  and  laid  out  to  dry  in 
the  sun.  At  mention  of  this  circumstance  a  cold 
shudder  ran  through  the  court ;  but  neither  that,  nor 
indeed  any  other  circumstance  in  the  evidence  —  not 
even  the  account  of  the  appearance  w^hich  the  mur- 
dered body  exhibited  when  found  on  the  moor,  or 
when  afterwards  laid  on  the  bed  —  extorted  from  the 
prisoner  one  groan  —  one  sigh  —  or  touched  the  im- 
perturbable deathliness  of  his  countenance.  It  was 
proved,  that  when  searched  —  in  prison,  and  not  be- 
fore ;  for  the  agitation  that  reigned  over  all  assembled 
in  the  room  at  Moorside  that  dreadful  day,  had  con- 
founded even  those  accustomed  to  deal  -with  suspected 
criminals  —  there  were  found  in  his  pocket  a  small 
French  gold  watch,  and  also  a  gold  brooch,  which  the 
ladies  of  the  Castle  had  given  to  Margaret  Burnside. 
On  these  being  taken  from  him,  he  had  said  nothing, 
but  looked  aghast.  A  piece  of  torn  and  bloody  paper, 
which  had  been  picked  up  near  the  body,  was  sworn 
to  be  in  his  handwriting  ;  and  though  the  meaning  of 
the  words  —  yet  legible  —  was  obscure,  they  seemed 
20* 


946  friendship's  gift. 

to  express  a  request  that  Margaret  would  meet  him 
on  the  moor  on  that  Saturday  afternoon  she  was  mur- 
dered. The  words  "  Saturday  "  — "  meet  me  "  — 
"last  time," — were  not  indistinct,  and  the  paper  was 
of  the  same  quality  and  color  with  some  found  in  a 
drawer  in  his  bed-room  at  Moorside.  It  was  proved 
that  he  had  been  drinking  with  some  dissolute  per- 
sons —  poachers  and  the  like  —  in  a  neighboring 
parish  all  Saturday,  till  well  on  in  the  afternoon,  when 
he  left  them  in  a  state  of  intoxication  —  and  was  then 
seen  runnin<]i;  alonor  the  hill  side  in  the  direction  of  the 
moor.  Where  he  passed  the  night  between  the  Sat- 
urday and  the  Sabbath,  he  could  give  no  account, 
except  once  when  unasked,  and  as  if  speaking  to 
himself  he  was  overheard  by  the  jailer  to  mutter, 
"Oh!  that  fatal  night— that  fatal  night !  "  xind 
then,  when  suddenly  mterrogated,  "  Where  were 
you  ? "  he  answered,  "  Asleep  on  the  hill ; "  and 
immediately  relapsed  into  a  state  of  mental  abstrac- 
tion. These  were  the  chief  circumstances  against 
him,  which  his  counsel  had  striven  to  explain  away. 
That  most  eloquent  person  dwelt  with  affecting 
earnestness  on  the  wickedness  of  putting  any  evil 
construction  on  the  distracted  behavior  of  the  wretch- 
ed man  when  brought  without  warning  upon  the  sud- 
den sight  of  the  mangled  corpse  of  the  beautiful  girl, 
whom  all  allowed  he  had  most  passionately  and  ten- 
derly loved ;  and  he  strove  to  prove  —  as  he  did 
prove  to  the  conviction  of  many  —  that  such  behavior 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  247 

was  incompatible  with  such  guilt,  and  almost  of  itself 
established  his  innocence.  All  that  was  sworn  to 
against  him,  as  having  passed  in  that  dreadful  room, 
was  in  truth  for  him  —  unless  all  our  knowledge  of 
the  best  and  of  the  worst  of  human  nature  were  not, 
as  folly,  to  be  given  to  the  winds.  He  beseeched  the 
jury,  therefore,  to  look  at  all  the  other  circumstances 
that  did  indeed  seem  to  bear  hard  upon  the  prisoner, 
in  the  light  of  his  innocence,  and  not  of  his  guilt,  and 
that  they  would  all  fade  into  nothing.  What  mat- 
tered his  possession  of  the  watch  and  other  trinkets  ? 
Lovers  as  they  were,  might  not  the  unhappy  girl  have 
given  them  to  him  for  temporary  keepsakes  ?  Or 
might  he  not  have  taken  them  from  her  in  some  play- 
ful mood,  or  received  them  —  (and  the  brooch  was 
cracked,  and  the  mainspring  of  the  watch  broken, 
though  the  glass  was  whole)  —  to  get  them  repaired 
in  the  town  which  he  often  visited,  and  she  never  ? 
Could  human  credulity  for  one  moment  believe  that 
such  a  man  as  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  had  been  sworn 
to  be  by  a  host  of  witnesses  —  and  especially  by  that 
witness,  who,  with  such  overwhelming  solemnity,  had 
declared  he  loved  him  as  his  own  son,  and  would  have 
been  proud  if  Heaven  had  given  him  such  a  son  —  he 
who  had  baptized  him,  and  known  him  well  ever 
since  a  child  —  that  such  a  man  could  roh  the  body  of 
her  whom  he  had  violated  and  murdered  ?  If,  under 
the  instigation  of  the  devil,  he  had  violated  and  mur- 
dered her,  and  for  a  moment  were  made  the  hideous 


248  friendship's  gift. 

supposition,  did  vast  hell  hold  that  demon  whose  voice 
would  have  tempted  the  violator  and  murderer  — 
suppose  him  both  —  yea,  that  man  at  the  bar  —  sworn 
to  by  all  the  parish,  if  need  w^ere,  as  a  man  of  tender  est 
charities,  and  generosity  unbounded  —  in  the  lust  of 
lucre,  consequent  on  the  satiating  of  another  lust  —  to 
rob  his  victim  of  a  few  trinkets  !  Let  loose  the  wildest 
imagination  into  the  realms  of  wildest  wickedness, 
and  yet  they  dared  not,  as  they  feared  God,  to  credit 
for  a  moment  the  union  of  such  appalling  and  such 
paltry  guilt,  in  that  man  who  now  trembled  not  before 
them,  but  who  seemed  cut  off  from  all  the  sensibilities 
of  this  life,  by  the  scythe  of  Misery  that  had  shorn 
him  down  !  But  why  try  to  recount,  however  feebly, 
the  line  of  defence  taken  by  the  speaker,  w^ho  on  that 
day  seemed  all  but  inspired.  The  sea  may  overturn 
rocks,  or  fire  consume  them  till  they  split  in  pieces  ; 
but  a  crisis  there  sometimes  is  in  man's  destiny,  which 
all  the  powers  ever  lodged  in  the  lips  of  man,  were 
they  touched  with  a  coal  from  heaven,  cannot  avert, 
and  when  even  he  who  strives  to  save,  feels  and  knows 
that  he  is  striving  all  in  vain  —  ay,  vain,  as  a  worm  — 
to  arrest  the  tread  of  Fate  about  to  trample  down  its 
victim  into  the  dust.  All  hoped  —  many  almost  be- 
lieved —  that  the  prisoner  would  be  acquitted  —  that 
a  verdict  of  "  Not  Proven,"  at  least,  if  not  of  "  Not 
Guilty,"  would  be  returned  ;  but  they  had  not  been 
sworn  to  do  justice  before  man  and  before  God  —  and, 
if  need  were,  to  seal  up  even  the  fountains  of  mercy 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  249 

in  their  hearts  —  flowing,  and  easily  set  a-flowing,  by 
such  a  spectacle  as  that  bar  presented  —  a  man  al- 
ready seeming  to  belong  unto  the  dead  ! 

In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  jury  returned  to 
the  box  —  and  the  verdict  having  been  sealed  with 
black  wax,  was  handed  up  to  the  Judge,  who  read, 
"  AYe  unanimously  find  the  prisoner  Guilty."  He 
then  stood  up  to  receive  the  sentence  of  death.  Not 
a  dry  eye  was  in  the  court  during  the  Judge's  solemn 
and  affecting  address  to  the  criminal  —  except  those 
of  the  shadow  on  whom  had  been  pronounced  the 
doom.  "  Your,  body  will  be  hung  in  chains  on  the 
moor  —  on  a  gibbet  erected  on  the  spot  where  you 
murdered  the  victim  of  your  unhallowed  lust,  and 
there  will  3'our  bones  bleach  in  the  sun,  and  rattle  in 
the  wind,  after  the  insects  and  the  birds  of  the  air 
have  devoured  your  flesh  ;  and  in  all  future  times,  the 
spot  on  which,  God-forsaking  and  God-forsaken,  you 
perpetrated  that  double  crime,  at  which  all  humanity 
shudders,  will  be  looked  on  from  afar  by  the  traveller 
passing  through  that  lonesome  wild  with  a  sacred  hor- 
ror !  "  Here  the  voice  of  the  Judge  faltered,  and  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands  ;  but  the  prisoner 
stood  unmoved  in  figure,  and  in  face  untroubled  — 
and  when  all  was  closed,  was  removed  from  the  bar, 
the  same  ghostlike  and  unearthly  phantom,  seemingly 
unconscious  of  what  had  passed,  or  even  of  his  own 
existence. 

Surely  now  he  will  suffer  his  old  father  to  visit  him 


250  friendship's  gift. 

in  his  cell !  ^'  Once  more  only  —  only  once  more  let 
me  see  him  before  I  die!"  were  his  words  to  the 
clergyman  of  the  parish,  whose  Manse  he  had  so  often 
visited  when  a  young  and  happy  boy.  That  servant 
of  Christ  had  not  forsaken  him  whom  now  all  the 
world  had  forsaken.  As  free  from  sin  himself  as 
might  be  mortal  and  fallen  man  —  mortal  because 
fallen  —  he  knew  from  Scripture  and  from  nature, 
that  in  "  the  lowest  deep  there  is  still  a  lower  deep  " 
in  wickedness,  into  which  all  of  woman  born  may  fall, 
unless  held  back  by  the  arm  of  the  Almighty  Being, 
whom  they  must  serve  steadfastly  in  hohness  and 
truth.  He  knew,  too,  from  the  same  source,  that 
man  cannot  sin  beyond  the  reach  of  God's  mercy  — 
if  the  worst  of  all  imaginable  sinners  seek,  in  a  Bible- 
breathed  spirit  at  last,  that  mercy  through  the  Atone- 
ment of  the  Redeemer.  Daily  —  and  nightly  —  he 
visited  that  cell ;  nor  did  he  fear  to  touch  the  hand  — 
now  wasted  to  the  bone  —  which  at  the  temptation  of 
the  Prince  of  the  Air,  who  is  mysteriously  suffered  to 
enter  in  at  the  gates  of  every  human  heart  that  is 
guarded  not  by  the  flaming  sword  of  God's  own  sera- 
phim—  was  lately  drenched  in  the  blood  of  the  most 
innocent  creature  that  ever  looked  on  the  day.  Yet 
a  sore  trial  it  was  to  his  Christianity  to  find  the 
criminal  so  obdurate.  He  would  make  no  confession. 
Yet  said  that  it  was  fit  —  that  it  was  far  best  that 
he  should  die  —  that  he  deserved  death!  But  ever 
when    the    deed    without    a  name    was  alluded  to. 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  251 

liis  tongue  was  tied  ;  and  once  in  the  midst  of  an 
impassioned  prajer,  beseeching  him  to  listen  to  con- 
science and  confess  — he  that  prayed  shuddered  to 
behold  him  frown,  and  to  hear  bursting  out  in  terrible 
energy,  "  Cease  —  cease  to  torment  me,  or  you  will 
drive  me  to  deny  my  God !  " 

No  father  came  to  visit  him  in  his  cell.  On  the 
day  of  trial  he  had  been  missing  from  Moorside,  and 
was  seen  next  morning  —  (where  he  had  been  all 
night  never  was  known  —  though  it  was  afterwards 
rumored  that  one  like  him  had  been  seen  sitting,  as 
the  gloaming  darkened,  on  the  very  spot  of  the  mur- 
der) —  wandering  about  the  hills,  hither  and  thither, 
and  round  and  round  about,  like  a  man  stricken  with 
blindness,  and  vainly  seekmg  to  find  his  home. 
"\Yhen  brought  into  the  house,  his  senses  were  gone, 
and  he  had  lost  the  power  of  speech.  All  he  could 
do  was  to  mutter  some  disjointed  syllables,  which  he 
did  continually,  without  one  moment's  cessation,  one 
unintelligible  and  most  rueful  moan !  The  figure  of 
his  daughter  seemed  to  cast  no  image  on  his  eyes  — 
blind  and  dumb  he  sat  where  he  had  been  placed, 
perpetually  wringing  his  hands,  with  his  shaggy  eye- 
brows drawn  high  up  his  forehead,  and  the  fixed  orbs 

—  though  stone  blind  at  least  to  all  real  things  — 
beneath  them  flashing  fire.     He  had  borne  up  bravely 

—  almost  to  the  last  —  but  had  some  tongue  syllabled 
his  son's  doom  in  the  solitude,  and  at  that  instant  had 
insanity  smitten  him ! 


252  friendship's  gift. 

Such  utter  prostration  of  intellect  had  been  ex- 
pected by  none ;  for  the  old  man,  up  to  the  very 
night  before  the  trial,  had  expressed  the  most  confi- 
dent trust  of  his  son's  acquittal.  Nothing  had  ever 
served  to  shake  his  conviction  of  his  innocence  — 
though  he  had  always  forborne  speaking  about  the 
circumstances  of  the  murder  —  and  had  communi- 
cated to  nobody  any  of  the  grounds  on  which  he  more 
than  hoped  in  a  case  so  hopeless  ;  and  though  a 
trouble  in  his  eyes  often  gave  the  lie  to  his  lips,  when  he 
used  to  say  to  the  silent  neighbors,  "  AYe  shall  soon  see 
him  back  at  Moorside."  Had  his  belief  in  Ludovic's 
innocence,  and  his  trust  in  God  that  that  innocence 
would  be  established  and  -set  free,  been  so  sacred, 
that  the  blow  when  it  did  come,  struck  him  like  a 
hammer,  and  felled  him  to  the  ground,  from  which  he 
had  risen  with  a  riven  brain  ?  In  whatever  way  the 
shock  had  been  given,  it  had  been  terrible  ;  for  old 
Gilbert  Adamson  was  now  a  confirmed  lunatic,  and 
keepers  were  in  Moorside  —  not  keepers  from  a  mad- 
house —  for  his  daughter  could  not  afibrd  such  tend- 
ence  —  but  two  of  her  brother's  friends,  who  sat  up 
with  him  alternately,  night  and  day,  wliile  the  arms  of 
the  old  man,  in  his  distraction,  had  to  be  bound  with 
cords.  That  dreadful  moaning  was  at  an  end  now ; 
but  the  echoes  of  the  hills  responded  to  his  yells  and 
shrieks  ;  and  people  were  afraid  to  go  near  the  house. 
It  was  proposed  among  the  neighbors  to  take  Alice 
and  httle  Ann  out  of  it ;  and  an  asylum  for  them  was 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  253 

in  the  Manse  ;  but  Alice  would  not  stir  at  all  their 
entreaties  ;  and  as,  in  such  a  case,  it  would  have  been 
too  shocking  to  tear  her  away  by  violence,  she  was 
suffered  to  remain  with  him  who  knew  her  not,  but 
who  often  —  it  was  said —  stared  distractedly  upon  her, 
as  if  she  had  been  some  fiend  sent  in  upon  his  insanity 
from  the  place  of  punishment.  Weeks  passed  on, 
and  still  she  was  there  —  hiding  herself  at  times  from 
those  terrifying  eyes  ;  and  from  her  watching  corner, 
waitmg  from  morn  till  night,  and  from  night  till  morn 
—  for  she  seldom  lay  down  to  sleep,  and  had  never 
undressed  herself  since  that  fatal  sentence  —  for  some 
moment  of  exhausted  horror,  when  she  might  steal 
out,  and  carry  some  sHght  gleam  of  comfort,  however 
evanescent,  to  the  glimmer  or  the  gloom  in  wliich  the 
brain  of  her  Father  swam  through  a  dream  of  blood. 
But  there  were  no  lucid  intervals  ;  and  ever  as  she 
moved  towards  him,  like  a  pitying  angel,  did  he  furi- 
ously rage  against  her,  as  if  she  had  been  a  fiend.  At 
last,  she  who,  though  yet  so  young,  had  lived  to  see 
the  murdered  corpse  of  her  dearest  friend  —  murdered 
by  her  own  only  brother,  whom,  in  secret,  that  mur- 
dered maiden  had  most  tenderly  loved  —  that  murder- 
ous brother  loaded  with  prison-chains,  and  condemned 
to  the  gibbet  for  inexpiable  and  unpardonable  crimes  — 
her  father  raving  like  a  demon,  self-murderous,  were 
his  hands  but  free,  nor  visited  by  one  glimpse  of  mercy 
from  Him  who  rules  the  skies  —  after  having  borne 
more  than,  as  she  meekly  said,  had  ever  poor  girl 
21 


214  friendship's  gift. 

borne,  she  took  to  her  bed  quite  heart-broken,  and, 
the  night  before  the  day  of  execution,  died.  As  for 
poor  httle  Ann,  she  had  been  wiled  away  some  weeks 
before ;  and  in  the  blessed  thoughtlessness  of  child- 
hood, was  not  without  hours  of  happiness  among  her 
playmates  on  the  braes. 

The  Morning  of  that  Day  arose,  and  the  Moor  was 
all  blackened  with  people  round  the  tall  gibbet,  that 
seemed  to  have  grown,  with  its  horrid  arms,  out  of  the 
ground  during  the  night.  No  sound  of  axes  or  ham- 
mers had  been  heard  clinking  during  the  dark  hours 
—  nothing  had  been  seen  passing  along  the  road  ;  for 
the  windows  of  all  the  houses  from  which  any  thing 
could  have  been  seen,  had  been  shut  fast  against  all 
horrid  sights  —  and  the  horses'  hoofs  and  the  wheels 
must  have  been  muffled  that  had  brought  that  hideous 
Framework  to  the  Moor.  But  there  it  now  stood  —  a 
dreadful  Tree  !  The  sun  moved  higher  and  higher 
up  the  sky,  and  all  the  eyes  of  that  congregation  were 
at  once  turned  towards  the  east,  for  a  dull  sound,  as 

frumbhng  wheels  and  trampling  feet,  seemed  shaking 
the  Moor  in  that  direction ;  and  lo !  surrounded  with 
armed  men  on  horseback,  and  environed  with  halberds, 
came  on  a  cart,  in  which  three  persons  seemed  to  be 
sitting,  he  in  the  middle  all  dressed  in  white  —  the 
death-clothes  of  the  murderer —  the  unpitying  shedder 
of  most  innocent  blood. 

There  was  no  bell  to  toll  there  —  but  at  the  very 
moment  he  was  ascending  the  scaffold,  a  black  cloud 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  255 

knelled  thunder,  and  many  hundreds  of  people  all  at 
once  fell  down  upon  theu-  knees.  The  man  m  white 
lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  said,  "  0  Lord  God  of  Heaven ! 
and  Thou  his  blessed  Son,  who  died  to  save  sinners ! 
accept  this  sacrifice  !  " 

Not  one  in  all  that  immense  crowd  could  have  known 
that  that  white  apparition  was  Ludovic  Adamson. 
His  hair,  that  had  been  almost  jet-black,  was  now  white 
as  his  face  —  as  his  figure,  dressed,  as  it  seemed,  for 
the  grave.  Are  they  going  to  execute  the  murderer 
in  his  shroud  ?  Stone-blind,  and  stone-deaf,  there  he 
stood  —  yet  had  he,  without  help,  walked  up  the  steps 
of  the  scaffold.  A  hymn  of  several  voices  arose  — 
the  man  of  God  close  beside  the  criminal,  with  the 
Bible  in  his  uplifted  hands  ;  but  those  bloodless  lips 
had  iio  motion  —  with  him  tliis  world  was  not,  though 
yet  he  was  in  life  — in  hfe,  and  no  more  !  And  was 
this  the  man  who,  a  few  months  ago,  flmging  the  fear 
of  death  from  him,  as  a  flash  of  sunshine  flings  aside 
the  shades,  had  descended  into  that  pit  which  an  hour 
before  had  been  bellowing,  as  the  foul  vapors  exploded 
like  cannons,  and  brought  up  the  bodies  of  them  who 
had  perished  in  the  womb  of  the  earth  ?  Was  this  he 
who  once  leaped  into  the  devouring  fire,  and  re-ap 
peared,  after  all  had  given  over  for  lost  the  glorious 
boy,  with  an  infant  in  his  arms,  while  the  flames  seemed 
to  eddy  back,  that  they  might  scathe  not  the  head  of 
the  deliverer,  and  a  shower  of  blessings  fell  upon  him 
as  he  laid  it  in  its  mother's  bosom,  and  made  the  heart 


256  friendship's  gift. 

of  tlie  -widow  to  sing  for  joy  ?     It  is  he.     And  now  the 
executioner  pulls  down  the  cord  from  the  beam,  and 
fastens  it   round  the  criminal's   neck.     His  face  is 
already  covered,  and  that  fatal  hankerchief  is  in  his 
hand.     The  whole  crowd  are  now  kneeling,  and  one 
multitudinous  sob  convulses  the  air  ;  —  when  wild  out- 
cries, and  shrieks,  and  yells,  are  at  that  moment  heard 
from  the  distant  gloom  of  the  glen  that  opens  up  to 
Moorside,  and  three  figures,  one  far  in  advance  of  the 
others,  come  flying,  as  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  to  the 
gibbet.     Hundreds  started  to  then-  feet,  and  "  'Tis 
the  maniac  —  'tis  the  lunatic  !  "  was  the   cry.     Pre- 
cipitating himself  down  a  rocky  hill-side,  that  seemed 
hardly  accessible  but  to  the  goats,  the  maniac,  the 
lunatic,  at  a  few  desperate  leaps  and  bounds,  just  as 
it  was  expected  he  would  have  been  dashed  in  picc-r, 
ahghted  unstunned  upon  the  level  greensward  ;  and 
now,  far  ahead  of  his  keepers,  with  incredible  swift- 
ness   neared    the    scaffold — and   the    dense    crowd 
making  a  lane  for  him  in  their  fear  and  astonishment, 
he  flew  up  the  ladder  to  the  horrid  platform,   and 
grasping  his  son  in  his  arms,  howled  dreadfully  over 
him;  and  then  with  a  loud  voice  cried,  "  Saved  —  saved 
—  saved!" 

So  sudden  had  been  that  wild  rush,  that  all  the 
officers  of  justice  —  the  very  executioner  —  stood 
aghast ;  and  now  the  prisoner's  neck  is  free  from  that 
accursed  cord — his  face  is  once  more  visible  without 
that  hideous  shroud  —  and  he  sinks  down  senseless  on 


I 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  257 

the  scaffold.  "  Seize  him  —  seize  him  !  "  and  he  was 
seized  —  but  no  maniac  —  no  lunatic  —  was  the  father 
noAY  —  for  during  the  night,  and  during  the  dawn,  and 
during  the  morn,  and  on  to  midday  —  on  to  the  Hour 
OF  One  —  when  all  rueful  preparations  were  to  be 
completed  —  had  Pro\ddence  been  clearing  and  calm- 
ing the  tumult  in  that  troubled  brain  ;  and  as  the  cot- 
tage clock  struck  one,  memory  brightened  at  the  chime 
into  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  past,  and  prophetic 
imagination  saw  the  future  lowering  upon  the  dismal 
present.  All  night  long,  with  the  cunning  of  a  mad- 
man —  for  all  night  long  he  had  still  been  mad  —  the 
miserable  old  man  had  been  disengaging  his  hands  from 
the  manacles,  and  that  done,  springing  like  a  wild 
beast  from  his  cage,  he  flew  out  of  the  open  door,  nor 
could  a  horse's  speed  on  that  fearful  road  have  over- 
taken him  before  he  reached  the  scaffold. 

No  need  was  there  to  hold  the  miserable  man.  He 
who  had  been  so  furious  in  his  manacles  at  Moorside, 
seemed  now,  to  the  people  at  a  distance,  calm  as 
when  he  used  to  sit  in  the  elder's  seat  beneath  the 
pulpit  in  that  small  kirk.  But  they  who  were  near  or 
on  the  scaffold,  saw  something  horrid  in  the  fixedness 
of  his  countenance.  "  Let  go  your  hold  of  me,  ye 
fools  I  "  he  muttered  to  some  of  the  mean  wretches 
of  the  law,  who  still  had  him  in  their  clutch  —  and 
tossing  his  hands  on  high,  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  — 
"  Give  ear,  ye  Heavens  !  and  hear,  0  Earth  !  I  am 
the  Violator  —  I  am  the  Murderer  !  " 
21* 


258  friendship's  gift. 

The  moor  groaned  as  in  earthquake  —  and  then  all 
that  congregation  bowed  their  heads  with  a  rustling 
noise,  like  a  wood  smitten  by  the  wind.  Had  they 
heard  aright  the  unimaginable  confession  ?  His  head 
had  long  been  gray  —  he  had  reached  the  term  allotted 
to  man's  mortal  life  here  below  —  threescore  and  ten. 
Morning  and  evening,  never  had  the  Bible  been  out 
of  his  hands  at  the  hour  set  apart  for  family  worship. 
And  who  so  eloquent  as  he  in  expounding  its  most 
dreadful  mysteries  ?  The  unregenerate  heart  of  man, 
he  had  ever  said  —  in  scriptural  phrase  —  was  "  des- 
perately wicked."  Desperately  wicked  indeed  !  And 
now  again  he  tcssed  his  arms  wrathfully  —  so  the  wild 
motion  looked  —  in  the  wrathful  skies.  "  I  ravished 
—  I  murdered  her  —  ye  know  it,  ye  evil  spirits  in  the 
depths  of  hell !  "  Consternation  now  fell  on  the  minds 
of  all  —  and  the  truth  was  clear  as  light  —  and  all 
eyes  knew  at  once  that  now  indeed  they  looked  on  the 
murderer.  The  dreadful  delusion  under  which  all 
their  understandings  had  been  brought  by  the  power 
of  circumstances,  was  by  that  voice  destroyed  —  the 
obduracy  of  him  who  had  been  about  to  die  was  now 
seen  to  have  been  the  most  heroic  virtue  —  the  self- 
sacrifice  of  a  son  to  save  a  father  from  ignominy  and 
death. 

"  0  monster,  beyond  the  reach  of  redemption  !  and 
the  very  day  after  the  murder,  while  the  corpse  was 
lying  in  blood  on  the  INIoor,  he  was  with  us  in  the 
House  of  God  !     Tear  him  in  pieces  —  rend  him  hmb 


TALE    OF    EXPIATION.  259 

from  limb  —  tear  him  into  a  thousand  pieces !  " 
"  The  Evil  One  had  power  given  him  to  prevail 
against  me,  and  I  fell  under  the  temptation.  It  was 
so  written  in  the  Book  of  Predestination,  and  the  deed 
lies  at  the  door  of  God  !  "  "  Tear  the  blasphemer 
into  pieces  !  Let  the  scaffold  drink  his  blood  !  "  — 
"  So  let  it  be  if  it  be  so  written,  good  people  !  Satan 
never  left  me  since  the  murder  till  this  day  —  he  sat 
by  my  sida  in  the  kirk  —  when  I  was  ploughing  in  the 
field  —  there  —  ever  as  I  came  back  from  the  other 
end  of  the  furrow  —  he  stood  on  the  headrig  —  in  the 
shape  of  a  black  shadow.  But  now  I  see  him  not  — 
he  has  returned  to  his  den  in  the  pit.  I  cannot  im- 
agine what  I  have  been  doing,  or  what  has  been  done  to 
me,  all  the  time  between  the  day  of  trial  and  this  of 
execution.  Was  I  mad  ?  No  matter.  But  you  shall 
not  hang  Ludovic — he,  poor  boy,  is  innocent;  — 
here,  look  at  him  —  here  —  I  tell  you  again  —  is  the 
Violator  and  the  Murderer  ! " 

But  shall  the  men  in  authority  dare  to  stay  the  ex- 
ecution at  a  maniac's  words  ?  If  they  dare  not  —  that 
multitude  will,  now  all  rising  together  like  the  waves 
of  the  sea.  "  Cut  the  cords  asunder  that  bind  our 
Ludovic's  arms,"  —  a  thousand  voices  cried  ;  and  the 
murderer,  unclasping  a  knife,  that,  all  unknown  to  his 
keepers,  he  had  worn  in  his  breast  when  a  maniac, 
sheared  them  asunder  as  the  sickle  shears  the  corn. 
But  his  son  stirred  not  —  and  on  being  hfted  up  by  his 
father,  gave  not  so  much  as  a  groan.     His  heart  had 


260  friendship's  gift. 

burst,  and  he  was  dead.  No  one  touched  the  gray- 
headed  murderer,  who  knelt  down  —  not  to  pray  — 
but  to  look  into  his  son's  eves  —  and  to  examine  his 
lips  —  and  to  feel  his  left  breast  —  and  to  search  out 
all  the  symptoms  of  a  fainting-fit,  or  to  assure  himself, 
and  many  a  corpse  had  the  plunderer  handled  on  the 
field  after  hush  of  the  noise  of  battle  —  that  this  was 
death.  He  rose  ;  and  standing  forward  on  the  edge 
of  the  scaffold,  said,  with  a  voice  that  shook  not,  deep, 
strong,  hollow  and  hoarse  —  "  Good  people  !  I  am 
likewise  now  the  murderer  of  my  daughter  and  of  my 
son!  and  of  myself!  "  Next  moment  the  knife  was 
in  his  heart  —  and  he  fell  down  a  corpse  on  the  corpse 
of  his  Ludovic.  All  round  the  sultry  horizon  the  black 
clouds  had  for  hours  been  gathering  —  and  now  came 
the  thunder  and  the  lightning  —  and  the  storm. 
Again  the  whole  multitude  prostrated  themselves  on 
the  moor — and  the  Pastor,  bending  over  the  dead 
bodies,  said, 

"  This  is  Expiation  !  " 


I 


•^ 


f. 


a 


'7 


FAIR   INES. 


BY    THOMAS    HOOD. 


O  SAW  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

She's  gone  into  the  West, 

To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest: 

She  took  our  daylight  with  her. 

The  smiles  that  w^e  love  best, 

With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 


0  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 
Before  the  fall  of  night. 

For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivall'd  bright ; 

And  blessed  will  the  lover  be. 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  my  cheek 

1  dare  not  even  write  ! 


friendship's  gift. 


Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier, 

Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side. 

And  whisper'd  thee  so  near ! 

Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 

That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 


I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore. 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen. 

And  banners  waved  before  ; 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay. 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore ; 

It  would  have  been  a  beautious  dream, 

—  If  it  had  been  no  more ! 


Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song, 

With  Music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng; 

But  some  were  sad  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 

In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  farewell, 

To  her  you've  loved  so  long. 


Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines, 
That  vessel  never  bore 
So  fair  a  lady  on   its  deck. 
Nor  danced  so  ligiit  before,  — 


FAIR    INES.  263 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore ! 

The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more ! 


LOVE. 


ANONYMOUS. 


Of  all  passions  in  the  world,  love  not  only  is  the 
most  tyrannical,  and  takes  the  deepest  hold,  but  it  is 
also  the  speediest  in  its  transformation,  and  in  its 
change  of  the  scenery  around  us  ;  nay,  the  scenery 
environing  the  heart.  That  love  is  the  great  sweet- 
ener of  life  —  the  active  and  stirring  principle  —  the 
spring  which  sets  everything  in  motion  —  the  vivid 
awakener,  exponent,  and  representative  of  all  the 
finest,  most  delicate,  and  most  subtle  movements  in 
our  spiritual  nature,  who  can  deny  ?  But  as  all  minds 
differ,  so  all  must  love  differently :  the  tasteful  can 
love  but  with  taste  ;  the  dehcate  with  delicacy ;  the 
fervent  and  eager  with  high  impellent  strength,  and 
burning  completeness  and  abandonment. 

There  is  love  which,  once  aroused  —  called  to  the 
surface  from  its  tender  fountain,  and  boiling  up  out  of 
its  placid  depths,  becomes  like  the  torrent,  sweeping  on 
in  impetuosity,  rising  up  against  and  surmounting 
with  fury  all  petty  obstacles  and  small  interruptions 


LOVE.  265 

^vhich  tlie  envy  or  cautious  policy,  the  coldness  or 
worldiiness  of  man  seek  to  interpose  to  it. 

Love  is  such  a  giant  power  that  it  seems  to  gather 
Strength  from  obstructions,  and  at  every  difficulty- 
rises  to  higher  might.  It  is  all  dominant  —  all  con- 
i^uering  ;  a  grand  leveler  which  can  bring  down  to  its 
own  universal  hue  of  equalization  the  proudest  heights, 
and  remove  the  most  stubborn  impediments :  "  Like 
death,  it  levels  all  ranks,  and  lays  the  shepherd's  crook 
beside  the  sceptre."  There  is  no  hope  of  resistmg 
it,  for  it  outwatches  the  most  vigilent  —  submerges 
everything,  acquiring  strength  as  it  proceeds  ;  ever 
growing,  nay,  growing  out  of  itself.  Love  is  the  light, 
the  majesty  of  life  :  that  principle  to  which,  after  all 
oui'  struggling,  and  writhing,  and  twisting,  all  things 
must  be  resolved.  Take  it  away,  and  what  becomes 
of  the  world  !  It  is  a  barren  ^^ilderness  !  A  world 
of  monuments,  each  standing  upright  and  erumbhng ; 
an  army  of  gray  stones,  without  a  chaplet,  without  a 
leaf  to  take  off,  with  its  glimpse  of  green,  their  flat 
insipidity  and  offensive  uniformity  upon  a  shrubless 
plain.  Things  base  and  foul,  creeping  and  obscure, 
withered,  bloodless,  and  brainless,  could  alone  spring 
from  such  a  marble  hearted  soil. 

Its  vegetation  must  be  fdnt ;  its  grass  but  fields  of 
spiculce,  like  white  coral,  shivering  to  the  feet.  Sandy 
deserts,  springless,  herbless  ;  slatey  rocks  and  Hmc- 
stone  splinters,  cold  and  impenetrable  as  Egyptian 
obelisks,  scattered,  to  stand  for  ever  in  the  profundity 
22 


266  friendship's  gift. 

of  their  own  desolation,  and  to  rear  their  giant  shapes 
to  a  heaven  of  lead,  whose   clouds   sluggishly  and 
ponderously  move,  like  marble  islands,  in  an  atmos" 
phere  of  hopeless  depression,  stagnant  and  unmoving. 
Love  is  the  sun  of  the  moral  world ;  which  revives, 
invigorates,  calls  into  life,  and  illumines  all  objects  ; 
gives  strength  to  the  weak,  fire  to  our  plans  and  pur- 
poses, brings  about  great  things,  and  is  at  once  the 
mainspring  and  grand  mover  of  all  that  is  not  only 
sweet,  graceful,  and  beautiful  in  our  constitution,  but 
noble,  bold,  and  aspiring.      Love's  darts  are  silver  ; 
when  they  turn  to  fire  in  the  noble  heart  they  im- 
part a  portion  of  that  heavenly  flame  which  is  their 
element.     Love  is  of  such  a  refining,  elevating  char- 
acter, that  it  expels  all  that  is  mean  and  base ;  bids 
us  think  great  thoughts,  do  great  deeds,  and  changes 
our  common  clay  into  fine  gold.     It  illuminates  our 
path,  dark  and  mysterious  as  it  may  be,  with  torch- 
lights lit  from  the  one  great  light.     Oh,  poor,  weak, 
and  inexpressive  are  words  when  sought  to  strew,  as 
with  stars,  the  path  and  track  of  the  expression  of 
love's  greatness  and  power !     Dull,  pitiful,  and  cold  ; 
a  cheating,  horny  gleam,  as  strung  stones  by  the  side  of 
precious  gems,  and  the  far-flashing  of  the  sparkhng 
ruby  with  his  heart  of  fire  !     The  blue  eyes  of  tur- 
quoises, or  the  liquid  light  of  the  sapphire,  should 
alone  be  tasked  to  spell  along,  and  character  our 
thoughts  of  love. 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


BY    MRS.    NORTON. 


Do  you  remember  all  the  sunny  places, 

Where  in  bright  days,  long  {)ast,  we  played  together  ? 

Do  you  remember  all  the  old  home  faces 

That  gatliered  round  the  hearth  in  wintry  weather  ? 

Do  you  remember  all  the  happy  meetings, 

In  Summer  evenings  round  the  open  door  — 

Kind  looks,  kind  hearts,  kind  words  and  tender  greetings 

A  ad  clasping  hands  whose  pulses  beat  no  more  ? 

Do  you  remember  them  ? 

Do  you  remember  all  the  merry  laughter ; 
The  voices  round  the  swing  in  our  old  garden  : 
The  dog  that,  when  we  ran,  still  followed  after; 
The  teasing  frolic,  sure  of  speedy  pardon  : 
We  were  but  children  then,  young,  happy  creatures. 
And  hardly  knew  how  much  we  had  to  lose  — 
But  now  the  dreamlike  memory  of  those  features 
Comes  back,  and  bids  my  darkened  spirit  muse. 

Do  you  remember  them  ? 

Do  you  remember  when  we  first  departed 
From  all  the  old  companions  who  were  round  us, 
How  very  soon  again  we  grew  light-hearted. 


268  friendship's  gift. 

And  talked  with  smiles  of  all  the  links  which  bound  us  ? 

And  after,  when  our  footsteps  were  returning. 

With  unfelt  weariness,  o'er  hill  and  plain  ; 

How  our  young  hearts  kept  boiling  up  and  burning, 

To  think  how  soon  we'd  be  at  home  again,  — 

Do  you  remember  this  ? 

Do  you  remember  how  the  dreams  of  glory 

Kept  fading  from  us  like  a  f  dry  treasure ; 

How  we  thought  less  of  being  famed  in  story, 

And  more  of  those  to  whom  our  fame  gave  pleasure. 

Do  you  remember  in  far  countries,  weeping, 

When  a  light  breeze,  a  flower,  hath  brought  to  mind, 

Old  happy  thoughts^  which  till  that  hour  were  sleeping, 

And  made  us  yearn  for  ihose  we  left  behind  ? 

Do  you  remember  this  r 

Do  you  remember  when  no  sound  'woke  gladly, 

But  desolate  echoes  through  our  home  were  ringing, 

How  for  a  while  we  talked  —  then  paused  full  sadly, 

Because  our  voices  bitter  thoughts  were  bringing  ? 

Ah  me  !  those  days  —  those  days !  my  friend,  my  brother 

Sit  down  and  let  us  talk  of  all  our  woe, 

For  we  have  nothing  left  but  one  another ;  — 

Yet  where  they  went,  old  playmate,  ive  shall  go  — 

Let  us  remember  this. 


THE  LAST  CAB-DRIVER. 


BY    CHARLES    DICKENS. 

Of  all  the  cabriolet-drivers  whom  we  ever  had  the 
honor  and  gratification  of  knowing  by  sight  —  and  our 
acquaintance  in  this  way  has  been  most  extensive  — 
there  is  one  who  made  an  impression  on  our  mind 
which  can  never  be  effaced,  and  who  awakened  in  our 
bosom  a  feehng  of  admiration  and  respect,  which  we 
entertain  a  presentiment  will  never  be  called  forth 
again  by  any  human  being.  He  was  a  man  of  most 
simple  and  prepossessing  appearance.  He  was  a 
brown-whiskered,  white-hatted,  no-coated,  cab-man ; 
his  nose  was  generally  red,  and  his  bright  blue  eye 
not  unfrequently  stood  out  in  bold  relief  against  a 
black  border  of  artificial  workmanship  ;  his  boots  were 
of  the  Wellington  form,  pulled  up  to  meet  his  corduroy 
knee  smalls,  or  at  least  to  approach  as  near  them  as 
their  dimensions  would  admit  of;  and  his  neck  was 
usually  garnished  with  a  bright  yellow  handkerchief. 
In  summer  he  carried  in  his  mouth  a  flower ;  in  winter, 
22* 


b 


270  friendship's  gift. 

a  straw  —  slight,  but  to  a  contemplative  mind,  certain 
indications  of  a  love  of  nature,  and  a  taste  for  botany. 

His  cabriolet  was  gorgeously  painted  —  a  bright 
red  ;  and  wherever  we  went.  City  or  West  End,  Pad- 
dinglon  or  Halloway,  IS^orth,  East,  "West,  or  South^ 
there  was  the  red  cab,  bumping  up  against  the  posts 
at  the  street  corners,  and  turning  in  and  out,  among 
hackney-coaches,  and  drays,  and  carts,  and  wagons, 
and  omnibuses,  and  contriving  hj  some  strange  means 
or  other,  to  get  out  of  places  which  no  other  veliicle 
but  the  red  cab  could  ever  by  any  possibility  have  con- 
trived to  aet  into  at  all.  Our  fondness  for  that  red 
cab  was  unbounded.  How  we  should  have  liked  to  see 
it  in  the  circle  at  i^-stley's  !  Our  hfe  upon  it,  that  it 
should  have  performed  such  evolutions  as  would  have 
put  the  whole  company  to  shame  —  Indian  chiefs, 
knights,  Swiss  peasants,  and  all. 

Some  people,  object  to  the  exertion  of  getting  into 
cabs,  and  others  object  to  the  diinculty  of  getting  out 
of  them ;  we  think  both  these  are  objections  which 
take  their  rise  in  perverse  and  ill-conditioned  minds. 
The  getting  into  a  cab  is  a  very  pretty  and  graceful 
process,  which,  when  well  performed,  is  essentially 
mclo-dramatic.  First,  there  is  the  expressive  panto- 
mime of  everv  one  of  the  eii2;hteen  cabmen  on  the 
stand,  the  moment  you  raise  your  eyes  from  the  ground. 
Then  there  is  your  own  pantomime  in  reply  —  quite  a 
little  ballet.  Four  cabs  immediately  leave  the  stand, 
for  your  especial  accommodation ;  and  the  evolutions 


THE    LAST    CAB-DRIVEK.  271 

of  the  animals  who  draw  them,  are  bcautifiil  in  the 
extreme,  as  thej  grate  the  wheels  of  the  cabs  against 
the  curb-stones,  and  sport  plajfiiUy  in  the  kennel. 
You  single  out  a  particular  cab,  and  dart  swiftly 
towards  it.  One  bound  and  you  are  on  the  first  step  ; 
turn  your  body  lightly  round  to  the  right,  and  you 
are  on  the  second  ;  bend  gracefully  beneath  the  reins, 
working  round  to  the  left  at  the  same  time,  and  you 
are  in  the  cab.  There  is  no  diffiGulty  in  finding  a 
seat ;  the  apron  knocks  you  comfortably  into  it  at  once, 
and  ofTyou  go. 

The  getting  out  of  a  cab,  is,  perhaps  rather  more 
complicated  in  its  theory,  and  a  shade  more  difficult 
in  its  execution.  We  have  studied  the  subject  a  great 
deal,  and  we  think  the  be^t  way  is,  to  throw  yourself 
out,  and  trust  to  chance  for  alighting  on  your  feet.  If 
you  make  the  driver  alight  first,  and  then  throw  your. 
self  upon  him,  you  will  find  that  he  breaks  your  fall 
materially.  In  the  event  of  your  contemplating  an 
OiLor  of  eight-pence,  on  no  account  make  the  tender, 
or  show  the  money,  until  you  are  safely  on  the  pave- 
ment. It  is  very  bad  policy  attenaptlng  to  save  the 
fourpence.  You  are  very  much  in  the  power  of  a 
cabman,  and  he  considers  it  a  kind  of  fee  not  to  do 
you  any  wilful  damage.  Any  iuotruction,  how- 
ever, in  the  art  of  getting  out  of  a  cab,  is  wholly  un- 
necessary if  you  are  going  any  distance,  because  the 
probability  is,  that  you  will  be  shot  lightly  out  before 
you  have  completed  the  third  mile. 

We  are  not  aware   of  any  instance  on  record  in 


272  friendship's  gift. 

which  a  cab-horse  has  performed  three  consecutive 
miles  without  going  down  once.  What  of  that  ?  It 
is  all  excitement.  And  in  these  days  of  derangement 
of  the  nervous  system  and  universal  lassitude,  people 
are  content  to  pay  handsomely  for  excitement ;  where 
can  it  be  procured  at  a  cheaper  rate  ? 

But  to  return  to  the  cab  ;  it  was  omnipresent.  You 
had  but  to  walk  down  Holborn,  or  Fleet-street,  or  any 
of  the  principal  thoroughfares  in  which  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  traffic,  and  judge  for  j^ourself.  You  had  hardly 
turned  into  the  street,  when  you  saw  a  trunk  or  two, 
lying  on  the  ground  ;  an  uprooted  post,  a  hat-box,  a 
portmanteau,  and  a  carpet-bag,  strewed  about  in  a  very 
picturesque  manner ;  a  horse  in  a  cab  standing  by, 
looking  about  him  with  great  unconcern  ;  and  a  crowd, 
shoutino;  and  screaming;  ^-ith  delio;ht,  coolin^;  their 
flushed  faces  against  the  glass  windows  of  a  chemist's 
shop.  —  "  What 's  the  matter  here,  can  you  tell  me  ?  " 
"  O'ny  a  cab,  sir."  —  "  Any  body  hurt,  do  you  know  ?" 
"  O'ny  the  fare,  sir.  I  see  him  a  turnin'  the  corner, 
and  I  ses  to  another  gen'lm'n,  '  that  's  a  reg'lar  little 
oss,  that,  and  he  's  a  comin  along  rayther  sweet,  an't 
he  !  '  — '  He  just  is,'  ses  the  other  gen'lm'n,  ven  bump 
they  cums  agin  the  post,  and  out  flies  the  fare  like 
bricks."  Need  we  say  it  was  the  red  cab  ;  or  that 
the  gentleman  with  the  straw  in  his  mouth,  who 
emerged  so  coolly  from  the  chemist's  shop  and  philo- 
sophically climbing  into  the  little  dickey,  started  off  at 
full  gallop,  was  the  red  cab's  licensed  driver  ? 


i 


THE    LAST    CAB-DRIVER.  273 

The  ubiqiiitv  of  this  red  cab,  and  the  influence  it 
exercised  OA'cr  the  risible  muscles  of  justice  itself,  was 
perfectly  astonishing.  You  walked  into  the  justice- 
room  of  the  Mansion-house  ;  the  whole  court  resounded 
with  merriment.  The  Lord  Major  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair,  in  a  state  of  frantic  delight  at  his 
own  joke,  every  vein  in  Mr.  liobler's  countenance 
was  swollen  with  laughter,  partly  at  the  Lord  Mayor's 
iacetionsness,  but  more  at  his  own  ;  the  constables 
and  police-officers  were  (as  in  duty  bound)  in  ecstacies 
at  Mr.  Hobler  and  the  Lord  Mayor  combined  ;  and  the 
very  paupers,  glancing  respectfully  at  the  beadle's 
countenance,  tried  to  smile,  as  even  he  relaxed.  A 
tall,  weazen-faced  man,  with  an  impediment  in  his 
speech,  would  be  endeavoring  to  state  a  case  of  impo- 
sition against  the  red  cab's  driver  ;  and  the  red  cab's 
driver,  and  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  Mr.  Ilobler,  would 
be  having  a  little  fun  among  themselves,  to  the  inordi- 
nate delight  of  every  body  but  the  complainant.  In 
the  end,  justice  would  be  so  tickled  with  the  red-cab- 
driver's  native  humor,  that  the  fine  would  be  miti- 
gated, and  he  would  go  away  full  gallop,  in  the  red 
cab,  to  impose  on  somebody  else  without  loss  of  time. 

The  driver  of  the  red  cab,  confident  in  the  strength 
of  his  own  moral  principles,  like  many  other  philoso- 
phers, was  wont  to  set.  the  feelings  and  opinions  of 
society  at  complete  defiance.  Generally  speaking, 
perhaps,  he  would  as  soon  carry  a  fare  safely  to  his 
destination,  as  he  v.ould  upset  him  —  sooner,  perhaps, 


274  friendship's  gift. 

because  in  that  case  he  not  only  got  the  money,  but 
had  the  additional  amusement  of  running  a  longer 
heat  against  some  smart  rival.  But  society  made  war 
upon  him  in  the  shape  of  penalties,  and  he  must  make 
war  upon  society  in  his  own  way.  This  was  the  rea- 
soning of  the  red-cab-driver.  So,  he  bostowed  a 
searching  look  upon  the  fare,  as  he  put  his  hand  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  when  he  had  gone  half  the  mile,  to 
get  the  money  ready  ;  and  if  he  brought  forth  eight- 
pence,  out  he  went. 

The  last  time  we  saw  our  friend  was  one  wet  even- 
ing in  Tottenham-court-road,  when  he  was  engaged  in 
a  very  warm  and  somewhat  personal  altercation  with 
a  loquacious  httle  gentleman  in  a  green  coat.  Poor 
fellow  !  there  were  great  excuses  to  be  made  for  him  ; 
he  had  not  received  above  eighten-pence  more  than 
his  fare,  and  consequently  labored  under  a  great  deal 
of  very  natural  indignation.  The  dispute  had  attained 
a  pretty  considerable  height,  when  at  last  the  loqua- 
cious little  gentleman,  making  a  mental  calculation  of 
the  distance,  and  finding  that  he  had  already  paid 
mare  than  he  ought,  avowed  his  unalterable  determina- 
tion to  "  pull  up  "  the  cabman  in  the  morning. 

"  Now,  just  mark  this,  young  man,"  said  the  little 
gentleman,  "  I'll  pull  you  up  to-morrow  morning." 

"  No  !  will  you  though  ?  "  said  our  friend,  with  a 
sneer. 

"  I  will,"  replied  the  little  gentleman,  "  mark  my 
words,  that  's  all.  If  I  live  till  to-morrow  morning, 
you  shall  repent  this." 


THE    LAST    CAB-DRIVER.  275 

There  was  a  steadiness  of  pm-pose,  and  indignation 
of  speech  about  the  little  gentleman,  as  he  took  an 
angry  pinch  of  snuff,  after  this  last  declaration,  which 
made  a  visible  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  red-cab- 
driver.  He  appeared  to  hesitate  for  an  instant.  It 
was  only  for  an  instant;  his  resolve  was  soon  taken. 

"  You  '11  pull  me  up,  will  you  ?"  said  our  friend. 

"  I  will,"  rejoined  the  little  gentleman,  with  even 
greater  vehemence  than  before. 

"  Very  well,"  said  our  friend,  tucking  up  his  shirt 
sleeves  very  calmly.  ''  There  '11  be  three  veeks  for 
that.  Wery  good ;  that  '11  bring  me  up  to  the  middle 
o'  next  month.  Three  veeks  more  would  carry  me 
on  to  my  birth  day,  and  then  I  've  got  ten  pound  to 
draw.  I  may  as  well  get  board,  lodgin',  and  washin',  till 
then,  out  of  the  county,  as  pay  for  it  myself;  conse- 
quently here  goes  !  " 

So,  without  more  ado,  the  red-cab-driver  knocked 
the  Httle  gentleman  down,  and  then  called  the  police 
to  take  himself  into  custody,  with  all  the  civihty  in  the 
world. 

A  story  is  nothing  without  the  sequel ;  and  there- 
fore, we  may  state,  that  to  our  certain  knowledge,  the 
board,  lodghig,  and  washiug,  were  all  provided  in  due 
course.  We  happen,  to  know  the  fact,  for  it  came  to 
our  knowledge  thus  :  "We  went  over  the  House  of 
Correction  for  the  county  of  jSIiddlesex  shortly  after, 
to  witness  the  operation  of  the  silent  system ;  and 
looked  on  all  "  the  wheels  "  with  the  greatest  anxiety 


276  FRIEISDSHIP'S    GIFT. 

in  search  of  our  long-lost  friend.  He  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen,  however,  and  we  began  to  think  that  the  little 
gentleman  in  the  green  coat  must  have  relented,  when, 
as  we  were  traversing  the  kitchen-garden,  which  lies 
in  a  sequestered  part  of  the  prison,  we  were  startled 
by  hearing  a  voice,  which  apparently  proceeded  from 
the  wall,  pouring  forth  its  soul  in  the  plaintive  air  of 
"  all  round  my  hat,"  which  was  then  just  beginning 
to  form  a  recognized  portion  of  our  national  music. 

We  started.  —  '^  Vv^hat  voice  is  that  ?"  said  we. 

The  Governor  shook  his  head. 

"  Sad  fellow,"  he  repUed,  "  very  sad.  He  posi- 
tively refused  to  work  on  the  wheel :  so,  after  many 
trials,  I  was  compelled  to  order  him  into  solitary  con- 
finement. He  says  he  likes  it  very  much  though, 
and  I  am  afraid  he  does,  for  he  lies  on  his  back  on  the 
floor,  and  sings  comic  songs  all  day  !  " 

Shall  we  add,  that  our  heart  had  not  deceived  us  ; 
and  that  the  comic  singer  was  no  other  than  our  eager- 
ly-sought friend,  the  red-cab-driver  ? 

We  have  never  seen  him  since,  but  we  have  strong 
reason  to  suspect  that  this  noble  individual  was  a  dis- 
tant relative  of  a  waterman  of  our  acquaintance,  who, 
on  one  occasion,  when  we  were  passing  the  coach-stand 
over  which  he  presides,  after  standing  very  quietly  to 
see  a  tall  man  struggle  into  a  cab,  ran  rip  very  briskly 
when  it  was  all  over  (as  his  brethren  invariably  do,) 
and  touching  his  hat,  asked  as  a  matter  of  course,  for 
"  a  copper  for  the  waterman."     Now,  the  fare  was 


THE    LAST    CAB-DRIVER.  277 

by  no  means  a  handsome  man ;  and,  waxing  very 
indignant  at  the  demand,  he  replied  — "  Money 
What  for  ?  Comeing  up  and  looking  at  me,  I  sup- 
pose ?  "  — "  Veil,  sir,"  rejoined  the  waterman,  with  a 
smile  of  immovable  complacency,  "  Tliat  's  worth 
twopence,  at  least." 

Tliis  identical  waterman  afterwards  attained  a  very 
prominent  station  in  society  ;  and  as  we  know  some- 
thmg  of  his  life,  and  have  often  thought  of  teUmg  what 
we  do  know,  perhaps  we  shall  never  have  a  better 
opportunity  than  the  present. 

Mr.  William  Barker,  then,  for  that  was  the  gentle- 
man's name.     Mr.  Wilham  Barker  was  born but 

why  need  we  relate  where  Mr.  William  Barker  was 
born,  or  when  ?  Why  scrutmize  the  entries  in  paro- 
chial ledgers,  or  seek  to  penetrate  the  Lucinian  mys- 
teries of  lying-in  hospitals  ?  Mr.  William  Barker  was 
born,  or  he  had  never  been.  There  is  a  son  —  there 
was  a  father.  There  is  an  effect  —  there  was  a  cause. 
Surely  this  is  sufficient  information  for  the  most  Fati- 
ma-like  curiosity  ;  and,  if  it  be  not,  we  regret  our  ina- 
bility to  supply  any  further  evidence  on  the  pouit. 
Can  there  be  a  more  satisfactory,  or  more  strictly 
parliamentary  course  ?     Impossible. 

We  at  once  avow  a  similar  inability  to  record  at 
what  precise  period,  or  by  what  particular  process, 
this  gentleman's  patronymic,  of  William  Barker, 
became  corrupted  into  "  Bill  Boorker."  Mr.  Barker 
acquired  a  high  standing,  and  no  uiconsiderable  repu- 
23 


278  friendship's  gift. 

tation,  among  the  members  of  that  profession  to  which 
he  more  peculiarly  devoted  his  energies  ;  and  to  them 
he  -was  generally  known,  either  by  the  famihar  appel- 
lation of  "  Bill  Boorker,"  or  the  flattering  designation 
of  "  Aggerawatin  Bill,"  the  latter  being  a  playful  and 
expressive  sobriquet^  illustrative  of  Mr.  Barker's  great 
talent  in  "  aggerawatin "  and  rendering  wild  such 
subjects  of  her  Majesty  as  are  conveyed  from  place  to 
place,  through  the  instrumentality  of  omnibuses.  Of 
the  early  life  of  INIr.  Barker  little  is  known,  and  even 
that  little  involved  in  considerable  doubt  and  obscurity. 
A  want  of  apphcation,  a  restlessness  of  purpose,  a 
thirsting  after  porter,  a  love  of  all  that  is  roving  and 
cadger-hke  in  nature,  shared  in  common  with  many 
other  great  geniuses,  appear  to  have  been  his  leading 
characteristics.  The  busy  hum  of  a  parochial  free 
school,  and  the  shady  repose  of  a  county  gaol,  were 
ahke  inefficacious  in  producing  the  slightest  alteration 
in  Mr.  Barker's  disposition.  His  feverish  attachment 
to  change  and  variety,  nothing  could  repress ;  his  na- 
tive daring  no  punishment  could  subdue. 

If  Mr.  Barker  can  be  fairly  said  to  have  had  any 
weakness  in  his  earlier  years,  it  was  an  amiable  one  — 
love  ;  love  in  its  most  comprehensive  form  —  a  love  of 
ladies,  liquids,  and  pocket-handkerchiefs.  It  was  no 
selfish  feehng  ;  it  was  not  confined  to  his  own  posses- 
sions, which  but  two  many  men  regard  with  exclusive 
complacency.     No  ;  it  was  a  nobler  love  —  a  general 


THE    LAST    CAB-DRIVER.  279 

principle.     It  extended  itself  with  equal  force  to  the 
property  of  other  people. 

There  is  something  very  affecting  in  this.  It  is  still 
more  affecting  to  know,  that  such  philanthropy  is  but 
imperfectly  rewarded.  Bow-street,  Newgate,  and 
Millbank,  are  a  poor  return  for  general  benevolence, 
evincing  itself  in  an  irrepressible  love  for  all  created 
objects.  Mr.  Barker  felt  it  so.  After  a  lengthened 
interview  with  the  highest  legal  authorities,  he  quitted 
his  ungrateful  country,  with  the  consent,  and  at  the 
expense,  of  its  Government ;  proceeded  to  a  distant 
shore,  and  there  employed  himself, hke  another  Cincin- 
natus,  in  clearing  and  cultivating  the  soil  —  a  peaceful 
pursuit,  in  which  a  term  of  seven  years  glided  almost 
imperceptibly  away. 

AVliether,  at  the  expiration  of  the  period  we  have 
just  mentioned,  the  British  Government  required  Mr. 
Barker's  presence  here,  or  did  not  require  his  resi- 
dence abroad,  we  have  no  distinct  means  of  ascertain- 
ing. We  should  be  inclined,  however,  to  favor  the 
latter  position,  inasmuch  as  we  do  not  find  that  he  was 
advanced  to  any  other  public  post  on  his  return,  than 
the  post  at  the  comer  of  the  Haymarket,  where  he 
oflSciated  as  assistant  waterman  to  the  hackney-coach- 
stand.  Seated  in  this  capacity,  on  a  couple  of  tubs 
near  the  curb-stone,  with  a  brass-plate  and  number 
suspended  round  his  neck  by  a  massive  chain,  and  his 
ankles  curiously  enveloped  in  haybands,  he  is  supposed 


280 


to  have  made  those  observations  on  human  nature  which 
exercised  so  material  an  influence  over  all  his  proceed- 
ings in  later  hfe. 

Mr.  Barker  had  not  officiated  for  many  months  in 
this  capacity,  when  the  appearance  of  the  first  omni- 
bus caused  the  public  mind  to  go  in  a  new  direction, 
and  prevented  a  great  many  hackney  coaches  from 
going  in  any  direction  at  all.  The  genius  of  Mr. 
Barker  at  once  perceived  the  whole  extent  of  the  in- 
jury that  would  be  eventually  inflicted  on  cab  and 
coach  stands,  and,  by  consequence,  on  water-men  also, 
by  the  progi^ess  of  the  system  of  which  the  first  omni- 
bus was  a  part.  He  saw,  too,  the  necessity  of  adopt- 
ing some  more  profitable  profession ;  and  his  active 
mind  at  once  perceived  how  much  might  be  done  in 
the  way  of  enticing  the  youthful  and  unwary,  and 
shoving  the  old  and  helpless  into  the  wrong  buss,  and 
carrying  them  oif,  until,  reduced  to  despair,  they  ran- 
somed themselves  by  the  payment  of  sixpence  a-head, 
or,  to  adopt  his  own  figurative  expression  in  all  its 
native  beauty,  "  till  they  was  rig'larly  done  over,  and 
forked  out  the  stumpy." 

An  opportunity  for  realizing  his  fondest  anticipations 
soon  presented  itself.  Bumors  were  rife  on  the  hack- 
ney-coach-stands, that  a  buss  was  building,  to  run 
from  Lisson-grove  to  the  Bank,  down  Oxford-street  and 
Holborn ;  and  the  rapid  increase  of  busses  on  the 
Paddington-road,  encouraged  the  idea.  Mr.  Barker 
secretly  and  cautiously  inquired  in  the  proper  quar- 


THE  LAST    CAB-DRTVER.  281 

ters.  The  report  was  correct ;  the  "  Royal  Wil- 
liam" was  to  make  its  first  journey  on  the  following 
Monday.  It  was  a  crack  affair  altogether.  An  en- 
terprising young  cabman,  of  established  reputation  as 
a  dashing  whip  —  for  he  had  compromised  with  the 
parents  of  three  scrunched  children,  and  just  "  worked 
out "  his  fine,  for  knocking  down  an  old  lady  —  was 
the  driver ;  and  the  spirited  proprietor,  knowing  Mr. 
Barker's  qualifications,  appointed  him  to  the  vacant 
office  of  cad  on  the  very  first  application.  The  buss 
began  to  run,  and  Mr.  Barker  entered  into  a  new  suit 
of  clothes,  and  on  a  new  sphere  of  action. 

To  recapitulate  all  the  improvements  introduced  by 
this  extraordinary  man,  into  the  omnibus  system  — 
gradually,  indeed,  but  surely,  would  occupy  a  far 
greater  space  than  we  are  enabled  to  devote  to  this 
imperfect  memoir.  To  him  is  universally  assigned  the 
original  suggestion  of  the  practice  which  afterwards 
became  so  general  —  of  the  driver  of  a  second  buss 
keeping  constantly  behind  the  first  one,  and  driving 
the  pole  of  his  vehicle  either  into  the  door  of  the  other, 
every  time  it  was  opened,  or  through  the  body  of  any 
lady  or  gentleman  who  might  make  an  attempt  to  get 
into  it ;  a  humorous  and  pleasant  invention,  exhibiting 
all  that  originality  of  idea,  and  fine  bold  flow  of 
spirits,  so  conspicuous  in  every  action  of  this  great 
man. 

Mr.  Barker  had  opponents  of  course  ;  what  man  in 
public  fife  has  not  ?     But  even  his  worst  enemies  can- 
23* 


282  friendship's  gift. 

not  deny  that  he  has  taken  more  old  ladies  and  gentle- 
men to  Paddington  who  wanted  to  go  to  the  Bank,  and 
more  old  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  the  Bank  who  wanted 
to  go  to  Paddington,  than  any  six  men  on  the  road  ;  and 
however  much  malevolent  spirits  may  pretend  to  doubt 
the  accuracy  of  the  statement,  they  well  know  it  to  be  an 
established  fact,  that  he  has  forcibly  conveyed  a  variety 
of  ancient  persons  of  either  sex,  to  both  places,  who  had 
not  the  slightest  or  more  distant  intention  of  going 
any  where  at  all. 

Mr.  Barker  was  the  identical  cad  who  nobly  distin- 
guished himself,  sometime  since,  by  keeping  a  trades- 
man on  the  step  —  the  omnibus  going  at  full  speed  all 
the  time  —  till  he  had  thrashed  him  to  his  entire  satis- 
faction, and  finally  throwing  him  away,  when  he  had 
quite  done  with  him.  Mr.  Barker  it  ought  to  have 
been,  who,  honestly  indignant  at  being  ignominously 
ejected  from  a  house  of  public  entertainment,  kicked 
the  landlord  in  the  knee,  and  thereby  caused  his 
death.  We  say  it  ought  to  have  been  Mr.  Barker, 
because  the  action  was  not  a  common  one,  and  could 
have  emanated  from  no  ordinary  mind. 

It  has  now  become  matter  of  history  ;  it  is  recorded 
in  the  Newgate  Calendar ;  and  we  wish  we  could  at- 
tribute this  piece  of  daring  heroism  to  Mr.  Barker. 
We  regret  being  compelled  to  state  that  it  was  not 
performed  by  him.  Would,  for  the  family  credit, 
we  could  add,  that  it  was  achieved  by  his  brother  ! 

It  was  in  the  exercise  of  the  nicer  details  of  his 


THE   LAST   CAB-DRIVER.  283 

profession,  that  Mr.  Barker's  knowledge  of  human 
nature  was  beautifully  displayed.  He  could  tell  at  a 
glance  where  a  passenger  wanted  to  go  to,  and  would 
shout  the  name  of  the  place  accordingly,  without  the 
slightest  reference  to  the  real  destination  of  the 
veliicle.  He  knew  exactly  the  kind  of  old  lady  that 
would  be  too  much  flurried  by  the  process  of  pushing 
in,  and  pulling  out  of  the  caravan,  to  discover  where 
she  had  been  put  down,  until  too  late  ;  had  an  intuitive 
perception  of  what  was  passing  in  a  passenger's  mind 
when  he  inwardly  resolved  to  "  pull  that  cad  up  to- 
morrow morning  ;  "  and  never  failed  to  make  himself 
agreeable  to  female  servants,  whom  he  would  place 
next  the  door  and  talk  to  all  the  way. 

Human  judgment  is  never  infallible,  and  it  would 
occasionally  happen  that  Mr.  Barker  experimentalized 
with  the  timidity  or  forbearance  of  the  wrong  per- 
son, in  which  case  a  summons  to  a  Police-office,  was, 
on  more  than  one  occasion,  followed  by  a  committal 
to  prison.  It  was  not  in  the  power  of  trifles  such  as 
these,  however,  to  subdue  the  freedom  of  his  spirit. 
As  soon  as  they  passed  away,  he  resumed  the  duties 
of  his  profession  with  unabated  ardor. 

We  have  spoken  of  Mr.  Barker  and  of  the  red- 
cab-driver,  in  the  past  tense.  Alas  !  Mr.  Barker 
has  again  become  an  absentee ;  and  the  class  of 
men  to  which  they  both  belonged  are  fast  disappear- 
ing. Improvement  has  peered  beneath  the  aprons 
of  our  cabs,  and  penetrated  to   the   very  mnermost 


284  friendship's  gift. 

recesses  of  our  omnibuses.  Dirt  and  fustion  will 
vanish  before  cleanliness  and  livery.  Slang  will  be 
forgotten  when  civihty  becomes  general ;  and  that 
enlightened,  eloquent,  sage,  and  profound  body,  the 
magistracy  of  London,  will  be  deprived  of  half  their 
amusement,  and  half  their  occupation. 


t 


MUTUAL  LOVE. 


COLERIDGE. 


All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  tliere,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leant  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 


286  friendship's  gift. 


My  hope  !  my  joy  !  my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story  — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  :  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love. 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace, 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 


MUTUAL   LOVE.  287 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did. 
He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band. 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land! 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasp'd  his  knees  ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain  — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain. 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave  ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away. 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay. 

His  dying  words  —  but  when  I  reach'd 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty. 
My  faultering  voice  and  pausing  harp, 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrill'd  my  guiltless  Genevieve  ; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale. 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 


288  friendship's  gift. 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherish'd  long ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blush'd  with  love,  and  virgin  shame 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  di-eam, 
I  heard  her  breath  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved  —  she  stept  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stepp'd  — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'T  was  partly  Love,  and  partly  Fear, 
And  partly  't  was  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beautious  Bride. 


THE  HOLY  CHILD. 


BY  TROF.  WILSON. 


This  House  of  ours  is  a  prison  —  this  Study  of 
ours  a  cell.  Time  has  laid  his  fetters  on  our  feet  — 
fetters  fine  as  the  gossamer,  but  strong  as  Sampson's 
ribs,  silken-soft  to  wise  submission,  but  to  vain  impar 
tience  galling  as  cankered  wound  that  keeps  ceaselessly 
eating  into  the  bone.  But  while  our  bodily  feet  are 
thus  bound  by  an  inevitable  and  inexorable  law,  our 
mental  wings  are  free  as  those  of  the  lark,  the  dove, 
or  the  eagle  — and  they  shall  be  expanded  as  of  yore, 
in  calm  or  tempest,  now  touching  with  their  tips  the 
bosom  of  this  dearly  beloved  earth,  and  now  aspiring 
heavenwards,  beyond  the  realms  of  mist  and  cloud, 
even  unto  the  very  core  of  the  still  heart  of  that  other- 
TN-ise  unapproachable  sky  which  graciously  opens  to 
receive  us  on  our  flight,  when,  disencumbered  of  the 
burden  of  all  grovelHng  thoughts,  and  strong  in  spirit- 
uality, we  exult  to  soar 

"  Beyond  this  vissible  diurnal  sphere," 

24 


290  friendship's  gift. 

nearing   and   nearing   the   native   region  of  its  own 
incomprehensible  being. 

Now  touching,  we  said,  with  their  tips  the  bosom  of 
this  dearly  beloved  earth  !  How  sweet  that  attraction 
to  imagination's  wings  !  How  delightful  in  that  lower 
flight  to  skim  along  the  green  ground,  or  as  now  along 
the  soft-bosomed  beauty  of  the  virgin  snow !  We 
were  asleep  all  night  long  —  sound  asleep  as  children 
—  while  the  flakes  were  falling,  "  and  soft  as  snow  on 
snow  "  were  all  the  descendings  of  our  untroubled 
dreams.  The  moon  and  all  her  stars  were  wilhng 
that  their  lustre  should  be  veiled  by  that  peaceful 
shower  ;  and  now  the  sun,  j)leased  with  the  purity  of 
the  morning  earth,  all  white  as  innocence,  looks  dowTi 
from  heaven  with  a  meek  unmeltuig  light,  and  still 
leaves  undissolved  the  stainless  splendor.  There  is 
frost  in  the  air  —  but  he  "  does  his  spiriting  gently," 
studding  the  ground-snow  thickly  with  diamonds,  and 
shaping  the  tree-snow  according  to  the  pecuhar  and 
characteristic  beauty  of  the  leaves  and  sprays,  on 
which  it  has  alighted  almost  as  gently  as  the  dews  of 
spring.  You  know  every  kind  of  tree  still  by  its  own 
spirit  showing  itself  through  that  fairy  veil  —  momen- 
tarily disguised  from  recognition  —  but  admired  the 
more  in  the  sweet  surprise  with  which  again  your 
heart  salutes  its  familiar  branches,  all  fancifully  orna- 
mented with  their  snow  foliage,  that  murmurs  not 
like  the  green  leaves  of  summer,  that  like  the 
yellow  leaves  of  autumn  strews  not  the  earth  Avith  de- 
cay, but  often   melts  away  into   changes  so  invisible 


THE    HOLY    CHILD.  291 

and  inaudible  that  you  wonder  to  find  that  it  is  all 
vanished,  and  to  see  the  old  tree  again  standing  in  its 
own  faint-green  glossy  bark,  with  its  many  million 
buds,  which  perhaps  fancy  suddenly  expands  into  a 
power  of  umbrage  impenetrable  to  the  sun  in  Scorpio. 
A  sudden  burst  of  sunshine  !  bringing  back  the 
pensive  spirit  from  the  past  to  the  present,  and  kind- 
ling it,  till  it  dances  like  hght  reflected  from  a  burning 
mirror.  A  cheerful  Sun-scene,  though  almost  desti- 
tute of  life.  An  undulating  Landscape,  hillocky  and 
hilly,  but  not  mountainous,  and  buried  under  the 
weight  of  a  day  and  night's  incessant  and  continuous 
snow-fall.  The  weather  has  not  been  windy  —  and 
now  that  the  flakes  have  ceased  falling,  there  is  not  a 
cloud  to  be  seen,  except  some  delicate  braidings  here 
and  til  ere  along  the  calm  of  the  Great  Blue  Sea  of 
Heaven.  Most  luminous  is  the  sun,  yet  you  can  look 
straight  on  his  face,  almost  with  unwinking  eyes,  so 
mild,  and  mellow  is  his  large  hght  as  it  overflows  the 
day.  All  enclosures  have  disappeared,  and  you  indis- 
tinctly ken  the  greater  landmarks,  such  as  a  grove,  a 
wood,  a  hall,  a  castle,  a  spire,  a  village,  a  town —  the 
faint  haze  of  a  far  ofi"  and  smokeless  city.  Most  in- 
tense is  the  silence  ;  for  all  the  streams  are  dumb,  and 
the  great  river  Hes  hke  a  dead  serpent  in  the  strath. 
Not  dead  —  for,  lo  !  yonder  one  of  his  folds  glitters  — 
and  in  the  glitter  you  see  him  moving  —  while  all  the 
rest  of  his  sullen  length  is  palsied  by  frost,  and  looks 
livid  and  more  hvid  at  every  distant  and  more  distant 
winding.     What   blackens  on  that  tower  of  snow  ? 


292  friendship's  gift. 

Crows  roosting  innumerous  on  a  huge  tree  —  but  they 
caw  not  m  their  hunger.  Neither  sheep  nor  cattle 
are  to  be  seen  or  heard  —  but  they  are  cared  for  ;  — 
the  folds  and  the  farm-j^ards  are  all  full  of  life  —  and 
the  ungathered  stragglers  are  safe  in  their  instincts. 
There  has  been  a  deep  fall  —  but  no  storm  —  and  the 
silence,  though  partly  that  of  suffering,  is  not  that  of 
death.  Therefore,  to  the  imagination,  unsaddened  by 
the  heart,  the  repose  is  beautiful.  The  almost  un- 
broken uniformity  of  the  scene  —  its  simple  and  grand 
monotony  —  lulls  all  the  thoughts  and  feelings  into  a 
calm,  over  which  is  breathed  the  gentle  excitation  of 
a  novel  charm,  inspiring  many  fancies,  all  of  a  quiet 
character.  Their  range,  perhaps,  is  not  very  exten- 
sive, but  they  all  regard  the  homefelt  and  domestic 
charities  of  life.  And  the  heart  burns  as  here  aud 
there  some  human  dwelling  discovers  itself  by  a  wreath 
of  smoke  up  the  air,  or  as  the  robin  redbreast,  a 
creature  that  is  ever  at  hand,  comes  flitting  before 
your  path  with  an  almost  pert  flutter  of  his  feathers, 
bold  from  the  acquaintanceship  he  has  formed  with 
you  in  severer  weather  at  the  threshold  or  window  of 
the  tenement,  which  for  years  may  have  been  the 
winter  sanctuary  of  the  "  bird  whom  man  loves  best," 
and  who  bears  a  Christian  name  in  every  clime  he  in- 
habits. Meanwhile  the  sun  waxes  brighter  and  warmer 
in  heaven  —  some  insects  are  in  the  air,  as  if  that 
moment  called  to  life  —  and  the  mosses  that  may  yet 
be  visible  here  and  there  along  the  ridge  of  a  wall  or 
on  the  stem  of  a  tree,  in  variegated  lustre,  frost-bright- 


THE    HOLY    CHILD.  293 

ened,  seem  to  delight  in  the  snow,  and  in  no  other 
season  of  the  year  to  be  so  happy  as  in  winter.  Such 
gentle  touches  of  pleasure  animate  one's  whole  being, 
and  connect,  by  many  a  fine  association,  the  emotions 
inspired  by  the  objects  of  animate  and  of  inanimate 
nature. 

Ponder  on  the  idea  —  the  emotion  of  purity  —  and 
how  finely  soul-blent  is  the  delight  imagination  feels  in 
a  bright  hush  of  new-fallen  snow  !  Some  speck  or 
stain  —  however  slight  —  there  always  seems  to  be  on 
the  most  perfect  whiteness  of  any  other  substance  — 
or  "■  dim  suffusion  veils  "  it  with  some  faint  discolor 

—  witness  even  the  leaf  of  the  lily  or  the  rose. 
Heaven  forbid  that  we  should  ever  breathe  aught  but 
love  and  delight  in  the  beauty  of  these  consummate 
flowers  I  But  feels  not  the  heart,  even  Avhen  the  mid- 
summer mornino;  sunshine  is  meltins;  the  dews  on  their 
fragrant  bosoms,  that  their  loveliness  is  "of  the  earth 
earthy  "  —  faintly  tinged  or  streaked,  when  at  the 
very  fairest,  with  a  hue  foreboding  languishment  and 
decay  ?  Not  the  less  for  its  sake  are  those  soulless 
flowers  dear  to  us  —  thus  owning  kindred  with  them 
whose  beauty  is  all  soul  enshrined  for  a  short  while  on 
that  perishable  face.  Do  we  not  still  regard  the 
insensate  flowers — so  emblematical  of  what,  in  human 
life,  we  do  most  passionately  love  and  profoundly  pity 

—  with  a  pensive  emotion,  often  deapening  into  mel- 
ancholy that  sometimes,  ere  the  strong  fit  subsides, 
blackens  into  despair  !     What  pain  doubtless  was  in 

24* 


294  friendship's  gift. 

the  heart  of  the  Elegiac  Poet  of  old,  when  he  sighed 
over  the  transitory  beauty  of  flowers  — 

"  Conquerimur  natura  brevis  quam  gratia  Florum  !  " 

But  over  a  perfectly  pure  expanse  of  night-fallen  snow, 
when  unaffected  by  the  gentle  sun,  the  first  fine  frost 
has  incrusted  it  with  small  sparkling  diamonds,  the 
prevalent  emotion  is  joy.  There  is  a  charm  in  the 
sudden  and  total  disappearance  even  of  the  grassy 
green.  All  the  ''  old  familiar  faces  "  of  nature  are 
for  a  while  out  of  sight,  and  out  of  mind.  That  white 
silence  shed  by  heaven  over  earth  carries  with  it,  far 
and  wide,  the  pure  peace  of  another  region —  almost 
another  life.  No  image  is  there  to  tell  of  this  restless 
and  noisy  world.  The  cheerfulness  of  reality  kindles 
up  our  reverie  ere  it  becomes  a  dream  ;  and  we  are 
glad  to  feel  our  whole  being  complexioned  by  the 
passionless  repose.  If  we  think  at  all  of  human  life, 
it  is  only  of  the  young,  the  fair,  and  the  innocent. 
"  Pure  as  snow,"  are  words  then  felt  to  be  most  holy, 
as  the  image  of  some  beautiful  and  beloved  being 
comes  and  goes  before  our  eyes  —  brought  from  a  far 
distance  in  this  our  living  world,  or  from  a  distance 
further  still  in  a  world  beyond  the  grave  —  the  image 
of  a  margin  growing  up  sinlessly  to  womanhood  among 
her  parents'  prayers,  or  of  some  spiritual  creature  who 
expired  long  ago,  and  carried  with  her,  her  native  in- 
nocence unstained  to  heaven. 


THE    HOLY    CHILD.  295 

Such  Spiritual  Creature  —  too  spiritual  long  to 
sojourn  below  the  skies  —  wert  thou  —  whose  rising 
and  whose  setting  —  both  most  star-like  —  brightened 
at  once  all  thy  native  vale,  and  at  once  left  it  in  dai*k- 
ness.  Thy  name  has  long  slept  in  our  heart  —  and 
there  let  it  sleep  unbreathed —  even  as,  when  we  are 
dreaming  our  way  through  some  solitary  place,  without 
naming  it,  we  bless  the  beauty  of  some  sweet  wild- 
flower,  pensively  smiling  to  us  through  the  snow. 

The  Sabbath  returns  on  which,  in  the  little  kirk 
among  the  hills,  we  saw  thee  baptized.  Then  comes  a 
wavering  glimmer  of  five  sweet  years,  that  to  Thee,  in 
all  their  varieties,  were  but  as  one  dehghtful  season, 
one  blessed  life  —  and,  finally,  that  other  Sabbath,  on 
which,  at  thy  own  dying  request — between  ser\ices 
thou  wert  buried . 

How  mysterious  are  all  thy  ways  and  workings,  0 
gracious  Nature  !  Thou  who  art  but  a  name  given  by 
us  to  the  Being  in  whom  all  things  are  and  have  life. 
Ere  three  years  old,  she,  whose  image  is  now  with  us, 
all  over  the  small  silvan  world  that  beheld  the  evanes- 
cent revelation  of  her  pure  existence,  was  called  the 
"Holy  Child!"  The  taint  of  sin  —  inherited  from 
those  who  disobeyed  in  Paradise  —  seemed  from  her 
fair  clay  to  have  been  washed  out  at  the  baptismal 
font,  and  by  her  first  infantine  tears.  So  pious  people 
almost  belived,  looking  on  her  so  unlike  all  other  cliil- 
dren,  in  the  serenity  of  that  habitual  smile  that  clothed 
the  creature's  countenance  with  a  wondrous  beauty  at 


296  friendship's  gift. 

an  age  when  on  other  infants  is  but  faintly  seen  the 
dawn  of  reason,  and  their  eyes  look  happy  just 
like  the  thoughtless  flowers.  So  unlike  all  other  chil- 
dren—  but  unlike  only  because  sooner  than  they  she 
seemed  to  have  had  given  to  her,  even  in  the  commun- 
ion of  the  cradle,  an  intimation  of  the  being  and  the 
providence  of  God.  Sooner,  surely,  than  through  any 
other  clay  that  ever  enshrouded  immortal  spirit, 
dawned  the  light  of  religion  on  the  face  of  the  "  Holy 
Child." 

Her  lisping  language  was  sprinkled  with  words  alien 
from  common  childhood's  uncertain  speech,  that  mur- 
murs only  when  indigent  nature  prompts  ;  and  her  own 
parents  wondered  whence  they  came,  when  first  they 
looked  upon  her  kneeling  in  an  unbidden  prayer.  As 
one  mild  week  of  vernal  sunshine  covers  the  braes 
with  primroses,  so  shone  with  fair  and  fragi^ant 
feeling  —  unfolded,  ere  they  kne^j,  before  her  parents' 
eyes  —  the  divine  nature  of  her  who  for  a  season  was 
lent  to  them  from  the  skies.  She  learned  to  read  out 
of  the  Bible  —  almost  without  any  teaching  —  they 
knew  not  how  —  just  by  looking  gladly  on  the  words, 
even  as  she  looked  on  the  pretty  daisies  on  the  green 
—  till  their  meanings  §tole  insensibly  into  her  soul,  and 
the  sweet  syllables,  succeeding  each  other  on  the 
blessed  page,  were  all  united  by  the  memories  her 
heart  had  been  treasuring  every  hour  that  her  father 
or  her  mother  had  read  aloud  in  her  hearing  from  the 
Book  of  Life.     "  Suffer  little  cliildren  to  come  unto 


I 


THE    HOLY    CHILD.  2^ 

me,  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  "  —  how  wept  her  parents,  as  these  the  most 
affecting  of  our  Savior's  words  dropt  silver-sweet  from 
her  hps,  and  continued  in  her  upward  ejes  among  the 
swimming  tears  ! 

Be  not  incredulous  of  this  dawn  of  reason,  wonder" 
ful  as  it  ma  J  seem  to  you,  so  soon  becoming  morn  — 
almost  perfect  daylight  —  with  the  "  Holy  Child." 
Many  such  miracles  are  set  before  us  —  but  we  re  cog. 
nize  them  not,  or  pass  them  by  with  a  word  or  a  smile 
of  short  surprise.  How  leaps  the  baby  in  its  mother's 
arms,  when  the  mysterious  charm  of  music  thrills 
through  its  little  brain  !  And  how  learns  it  to  modu- 
late its  feeble  voice,  unable  yet  to  articulate,  to  the 
melodies  that  bring  forth  all  round  its  eyes  a  delighted 
smilp  !  Who  knows  what  then  may  be  the  thoughts 
and  feeliDgs  of  the  infant  a^wakened  to  the  sense  of  a 
new  world,  alive  through  all  its  being  to  sounds  that 
haply  glide  past  our  ears  unmeaning  as  the  breath  of 
the  common  air  !  Thus  have  mere  infants  sometimes 
been  seen  inspired  by  music  till,  like  small  genii,  they 
warbled  spell-strains  of  their  own,  powerful  to  sadden 
and  subdue  our  hearts.  So,  too,  have  infant  eyes 
been  so  charmed  by  the  rainbow  irradiating  the  earth, 
that  almost  infant  hands  ^  have  been  taught,  as  if  by 
inspiration,  the  power  to  paint  in  finest  colors,  and  to 
imitate,  with  a  wondrous  art,  the  skies  so  beautiful  to 
the  quick-awakened  spirit  of  delight.  What  knowledge 
have   not  some   children   acquired,  and   gone   down 


298 


scholars  to  their  small  untimely  graves !  Knowing 
that  such  things  have  been  —  are  —  and  vrill  be  — 
why  art  thou  incredulous  of  the  divine  expansion  of 
soul,  so  soon  understanding  the  things  that  are  divine 
in  the  "Holy  Child?" 

Thus  grew  she  in  the  eye  of  God,  day  by  day  wax- 
ing wiser  and  w^iser  in  the  knowledge  that  tends  to- 
wards the  skies  ;  and,  as  if  some  angel  visitant  were 
nightly  with  her  in  her  dreams,  awakening  every  mom 
with  a  new  dream  of  thought,  that  brought  with  it  a 
gift  of  more  comprehensive  speech.  Yet  merry  she 
was  at  times  with  her  companions  among  the  woods 
and  braes,  though  while  they  all  were  laughing,  she 
only  smiled;  and  the  passing  traveller,  who  might 
pause  for  a  moment  to  bless  the  sweet  creatures  in 
their  play,  could  not  but  single  out  one  face  among 
the  many  fair,  so  pensive  in  its  paleness,  a  face  to  be 
remembered,  coming  from  afar,  like  a  mournful 
thought  upon  the  hour  of  joy. 

Sister  or  brother  of  her  own  had  she  none  —  and 
often  both  her  parents  —  wiio  lived  in  a  hut  by  itself 
up  among  the  mossy  stumps  of  the  old  decayed  forest 
—  had  to  leave  her  alone  —  sometimes  even  all  the 
day  long  from  morning  till  night.  But  she  no  more 
wearied  in  her  solitariness  than  does  the  wren  in  the 
wood.  All  the  flowers  were  her  friends  —  all  the 
birds.  The  linnet  ceased  not  his  song  for  her,  though 
her  footsteps  wandered  into  the  green  glade  among 
the  yellow^  broom,  almost  within  reach  of  the  spray 


THE    HOLY    CHILD.  299 

from  which  he  poured  his  melody  —  the  quiet  eyes  of 
his  mate  feared  her  not  when  her  garments  almost 
touched  the  bush  where  she  brooded  on  her  young. 
Shyest  of  the  winged  silvans,  the  cushat  clapped  not 
her  wings  away  on  the  soft  approach  of  such  harmless 
footsteps  to  the  pine  that  concealed  her  slender  nest. 
As  if  blown  from  heaven,  descended  round  her  path 
the  showers  of  the  painted  butterflies,  to  feed,  sleep, 
or  die  —  undisturbed  by  her  —  upon  the  wild-flowers 
—  with  wings,  when  motionless,  undistinguish able  from 
the  blossoms.  And  well  she  loved  the  brown,  busy, 
blameless  bees,  come  thither  for  the  honey-dews  from 
a  hundred  cots  sprinkled  all  over  the  parish,  and  all 
high  overhead  sailing  away  at  evening,  laden  and 
wearied,  to  their  straw-roofed  skeps  in  many  a  hamlet 
garden.  The  leaf  of  every  tree,  shrub,  and  plant, 
she  knew  familiarly  and  lovingly  in  its  own  character- 
istic beauty  ;  and  she  was  loath  to  shake  one  dew- 
drop  from  the  sweetbrier-rose.  And  well  she  knew 
that  all  nature  loved  her  in  return  —  that  they  were 
dear  to  each  other  in  their  innocence  —  and  that  the 
very  sunshine,  in  motion  or  in  rest,  was  ready  to  come 
at  the  bidding  of  her  smiles.  Skilful  those  small 
white  hands  of  hers  among  the  reeds  and  rushes  and 
osiers  —  and  many  a  pretty  flower-basket  grew  be- 
neath their  touch,  her  parents  wondering  on  their 
return  home  to  see  the  handiwork  of  one  who  was 
never  idle  in  her  happiness.  Thus  early  —  ere  yet 
but  five  years  old  —  did  she  earn  her  mite  for  the 


300  FEIENPSHIP'S    GIFT. 

sustenance  of  her  c^vn  beautiful  life.  The  russet  garb 
she  wore  she  herself  had  Avon  —  and  thus  Poverty,  at 
the  door  of  that  hut,  became  even  like  a  Guardian 
Angel,  "with  the  lineaments  of  heaven  on  her  brow,  and 
the  quietude  of  heaven  beneath  her  feet. 

But  these  were  but  her  lonely  pastimes,  or  gentle 
taskwork  self-imposed  among  her  pastimes,  and  itself 
the  sweetest  of  them  all,  inspired  by  a  sense  of  duty 
that  still  brings  with  it  its  own  delight,  aud  hallowed 
by  religion,  that  even  in  the  most  adverse  lot  changes 
slavery  into  freedom  —  till  the  heart,  insensible  to  the 
bonds  of  necessity,  sings  aloud  for  joy.  The  life 
within  the  life  of  the  "  Holy  Child,"  apart  from  even 
such  innocent  employments  as  these,  and  from  such 
recreations  as  innocent,  among  the  shadows  and  the 
sunshine  of  those  silvan  haunts,  was  passed  —  let  us 
fear  not  to  say  the  truth,  wondrous  as  such  worship 
was  in  one  so  very  young  —  was  passed  in  the  worship 
of  God  ;  and  her  parents  —  though  sometimes  even 
saddened  to  see  such  piety  in  a  small  creature  Hke 
her,  and  afraid,  in  their  exceeding  love,  that  it  betok- 
ened an  early  removal  from  this  world  of  one  too  per- 
fectly pure  ever  to  be  touched  by  its  sins  and  sorrows^ 
—  forbore,  in  an  awful  pity,  ever  to  remove  the  Bible 
from  her  knees,  as  she  would  sit  with  it  there,  not  at 
morning  and  at  evening  only,  or  all  the  Sabbath  long 
as  soon  as  they  returned  from  the  kirk,  but  often 
through  all  the  hours  of  the  longest  and  sunniest 
week-days,  when,  had  she  chosen  to  do  so,  there  was 


THE    HOLY    CHILD.  301 

nothing  to  hinder  her  from  going  up  the  hill-side,  or 
down  to  the  little  village,  to  play  with  the  other  chil- 
dren, always  too  happy  when  she  appeared  —  nothint:: 
to  hinder  her  but  the  voice  she  heard  speaking  in  that 
Book,  and  the  hallelujahs  that,  at  the  turning  over  of 
each  blessed  page,  came  upon  the  ear  of  the  "  Holy 
Child  "  from  white-robed  saints  all  kneehng  before  His 
throne  in  heaven. 

Her  life  seemed  to  be  the  same  in  sleep.  Often  at 
midnight,  by  the  light  of  the  moon  shining  in  upon 
her  little  bed  beside  theirs,  her  parents  leant  over  her 
face,  diviner  in  dreams,  and  wept  as  she  wept,  her 
lips  all  the  while  murmuring,  in  broken  sentences  of 
prayer,  the  name  of  Him  who  died  for  us  all.  Bat 
plenteous  as  w^ere  her  penitential  tears  —  penitential 
in  the  holy  humbleness  of  her  stainless  spirit,  over 
thoughts  that  had  never  left  a  dimming  breath  on  its 
purity,  yet  that  seemed  in  those  strange  visitings  to  be 
hauntins:  her  as  the  shadow^s  of  sins  —  soon  were  they 
all  dried  up  in  the  lustre  of  her  returning  smiles. 
Waking,  her  voice  in  the  kirk  was  the  sweetest  among 
many  sweet,  as  all  the  young  smgers,  and  she  the 
youngest  far,  sat  together  by  themselves,  and  within 
the  congregational  music  of  the  psalm  uplifted  a  sil- 
very strain  that  sounded  like  the  very  spirit  of  the 
whole,  even  like  angelic  harmony  blent  with  a  mortal 
song.  But  sleeping,  still  more  sweetly  sang  the  "  Holy 
Child  ;  "  and  then,  too,  in  some  diviner  inspiration 
than  ever  was  granted  to  it  while  awake,  her  soul  com- 
25 


3052  friendship's  gift. 

posed  its  own  hymns,  and  set  the  simple  scriptural 
words  to  its  own  mysterious  music  —  the  tunes  she 
loved  best  gliding  into  one  another,  without  once  ever 
marring  the  melody,  with  pathetic  touches  interposed 
never  heard  before,  and  never  more  to  be  renewed  I 
For  each  dream  had  its  own  breathing,  and  many- 
visioned  did  then  seem  to  be  the  sinless  creature's 
sleep. 

The  love  that  was  borne  for  her  all  over  the  hill- 
region,  and  beyond  its  circling  clouds,  was  almost  such 
as  mortal  creatures  might  be  thought  to  feel  for  some 
existence  that  had  visibly  come  from  heaven.  Yet  all 
who  looked  on  her,  saw  that  she,  like  themselves,  was 
mortal,  and  many  an  eye  w^as  wet,  the  heart  wist  not 
why,  to  hear  such  wisdom  falling  from  such  lips  ;  for 
dimly  did  it  prognosticate,  that  as  short  as  bright  would 
be  her  walk  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  And  thus 
for  the  ''  Holy  Child  "  was  their  love  elevated  by 
awe,  and  saddened  by  pity — and  as  by  herself  she 
passed  pensively  by  their  dwellings,  the  same  eyes 
that  smiled  on  her  presence,  on  her  disappearance 
wept. 

Not  in  vain  for  others  —  and  for  herself,  oh  !  what 
great  gain  !  —  for  those  few  years  on  earth  did  that 
pure  spirit  ponder  on  the  word  of  God  !  Other  chil- 
dren became  pious  from  their  delight  in  her  piety  — 
for  she  was  simple  as  the  simplest  among  them  all,  and 
walked  with  them  hand  in  hand,  nor  declined  compan- 
ionship with  any  one  that  was  good.     But  all  grew 


THE    HOLY    CHILD.  303 

good  by  being  with  her  —  and  parents  had  but  to 
whisper  her  name,  and  in  a  moment  the  passionate  sob 
was  hushed  —  the  lowering  brow  Ughted — and  the 
household  in  peace.  Older  hearts  owned  the  power 
of  the  piety  so  far  surpassing  their  thoughts  ;  and  time- 
hardened  sinners,  it  is  said,  when  looking  and  listening 
to  the  "  Holy  Child,"  knew  the  error  of  their  ways, 
and  returned  to  the  right  path  as  at  a  voice  from 
heaven. 

Bright  was  her  seventh  summer  —  the  brightest,  so 
the  aged  said,  that  had  ever,  in  man's  memory,  shone 
over  Scotland.  One  long,  still,  sunny,  blue  day  fol- 
lowed another,  and  in  the  rainless  weather,  though  the 
dews  kept  green  the  hills,  the  song  of  the  streams  was 
low.  But  paler  and  paler,  in  sunhght  and  moonlight, 
became  the  sweet  face  that  had  been  always  pale  ;  and 
the  voice  that  had  been  always  something  mournful, 
breathed  lower  and  sadder  still  from  the  too  perfect 
whiteness  of  her  breast.  No  need  —  no  fear  —  to  tell 
her  that  she  was  about  to  die.  Sweet  whispers  had 
sung  it  to  her  in  her  sleep  —  and  waking  she  knew  it 
in  the  look  of  the  piteous  skies.  But  she  spoke  not 
to  her  parents  of  death  more  than  she  had  often  done 
—  and  never  of  her  own.  Only  she  seemed  to  love 
them  with  a  more  exceeding  love  —  and  was  readier, 
even  sometimes  when  no  one  was  speaking,  with  a  few 
drops  of  tears.  Sometimes  she  disappeared  —  nor, 
when  sought  for,  was  found  in  the  woods  about  the 
hut.     And  one  day  that  mystery  was  cleared  ;  for  a 


304  friendship's  gift. 

shepherd  saw  her  sitting  by  herself  on  a  grassy  mound 
in  a  nook  of  the  small  sohtary  kirkyard,  a  long  mile 
off  among  the  hills,  so  lost  m  reading  the  Bible,  that 
shadow  or  sound  of  his  feet  awoke  her  not ;  and,  igno-^ 
rant  of  his  presence,  she  knelt  down  and  prayed  — 
for  a  while  weeping  bitterly  —  but  soon  comforted  by 
a  heavenly  calm  —  that  her  sms  might  be  forgiven 
her ! 

One  Sabbath  evening,  soon  after,  as  she  was  sitting 
beside  her  parents  at  the  door  of  their  hut,  looking 
first  for  a  long  while  on  their  faces,  and  then  for  along 
while  on  the  sky,  though  it  was  not  yet  the  stated  hour 
of  worship,  she  suddenly  knelt  down,  and  leaning  on 
their  knees,  with  hands  clasped  more  fervently  than 
her  wont,  she  broke  forth  into  tremulous  singing  of 
that  hymn  which  from  her  lips  they  never  heard  mth- 
out  unendurable  tears  : 

"  The  hour  of  my  departure's  come, 
I  hear  the  voice  that  calls  me  home; 
At  last,  O  Lord,  let  trouble  cease. 
And  let  thy  servant  die  in  peace !  " 

They  carried  her  fainting  to  her  little  bed,  and  uttered 
not  a  word  to  one  another  till  she  revived.  The  shock 
was  sudden,  but  not  unexpected,  and  they  knew  now 
that  the  hand  of  death  was  upon  her,  although  her 
eyes  soon  became  brighter  and  brighter,  they  thought, 
than  they  had  ever  been  before.  But  forehead,  cheeks, 
lips,  neck,  and  breast,  were  all  as  white,  and,  to  the 


THE    HOLY    CHILD.  905 

quivering  hands  that  touched  them,  almost  as  cold  as 
snow.  Ineffable  was  the  bliss  in  those  radiant  eyes  ; 
but  the  breath  of  words  was  frozen,  and  that  hymn 
was  almost  her  last  farewell.  Some  few  words  she 
spake  —  and  named  the  hour  and  day  she  wished  to 
be  buried.  Her  lips  could  then  just  faintly  return  the 
kiss,  and  no  more  —  a  film  came  over  the  now  dim 
blue  of  her  eyes  —  the  father  listened  for  her  breath 

—  and  then  the  mother  took  his  place,  and  leaned  her 
ear  to  the  unbreathing  mouth,  long  deluding  herself 
with  its  lifelike  smile  ;  but  a  sudden  darkness  in  the 
room,  and  a  sudden  stillness,  most  dreadful  both,  con- 
vinced their  unbelieving  hearts  at  last,  that  it  was 
death. 

All  the  parish,  it  might  be  said,  attended  her  funeral 

—  for  none  stayed  away  from  the  kirk  that  Sabbath 

—  though  many  a  voice  was  unable  to  join  in  the  Psalm. 
The  little  grave  was  soon  filled  up  —  and  you  hardly 
knew  that  the  turf  had  been  disturbed  beneath  which 
she  lay.  The  afternoon  service  consisted  but  of  a 
prayer  —  for  he  who  ministered,  had  loved  her  with 
love  unspeakable  —  and,  though  an  old  gray-haired 
man,  all  the  time  he  prayed  he  wept.  In  the  sobbing 
kirk  her  parents  were  sitting,  but  no  one  looked  at 
them  —  and  when  the  congregation  rose  to  go,  there 
they  remained  sitting  —  and  an  hour  afterwards  came 
out  again  into  the  open  air,  and  parting  with  their  pas- 
tor at  the  gate,  walked  away  to  their  hut,  ovei-shadowed 
with  the  blessings  of  a  thousand  prayers. 

25* 


306  friendship's  gift. 

And  did  her  parents,  soon  after  she  was  buried,  die 
of  broken  hearts,  or  pine  awaj  disconsolately  to  their 
graves  ?  Think  not  that  they,  who  were  Christians 
indeed,  could  be  guilty  of  such  ingratitude.  "  The 
Lord  giveth,  and  the  Lord  taketh  away  —  blessed  be 
the  name  of  the  Lord  !  "  were  the  first  words  they 
had  spoken  by  that  bedside ;  during  many,  many  long 
years  of  weal  or  woe,  duly  every  morning  and  night, 
these  same  blessed  words  did  they  utter  when  on  then' 
knees  together  in  prayer  —  and  many  a  thousand  times 
besides,  when  they  were  apart,  she  in  her  silent  hut, 
and  he  on  the  hill  —  neither  of  them  unhappy  in  their 
solitude,  though  never  again,  perhaps,  was  his  counte- 
nance so  cheerful  as  of  yore  —  and  though  often  sud- 
denly amidst  mirth  or  sunshine  their  eyes  were  seen  to 
overflow.  Happy  had  they  been  —  as  we  mortal  be- 
ings ever  can  be  happy  —  during  many  pleasant  years 
of  wedded  life  before  she  had  been  bom.  And  happy 
were  they  —  on  the  verge  of  old  age  —  long  after  she 
had  here  ceased  to  be.  Their  Bible  had  indeed  been 
an  idle  book  —  the  Bible  that  belonged  to  "  the  Holy 
Child,"  —  and  idle  all  their  kirk-goings  with  "  the  Holy 
Child,"  through  the  Sabbath-calm  —  had  those  inter- 
mediate years  not  left  a  power  of  bliss  behind  them 
triumphant  over  death  and  the  grave. 


THE  CLOUD. 


By    SHELLEY. 


I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flovveriS, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
I  bear  light  shades  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rock'd  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain. 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white. 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  [)ilot  sits. 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fetter'd  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion 

This  pilot  js  guiding  me 


308 


Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains  ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning-star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthcjuake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnigiit  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roofj 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  lent, 


THE    CLOUD. 


309 


Till  the  calm  rivers  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 
Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim. 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl, 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chain'd  to  my  chair. 

Is  the  million-color'd  bow ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

1  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams. 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


THE  FUGITIVES. 


BY  SHELLEY. 
I. 

The  waters  are  flashing, 
The  white  hail  is  dashing, 
The  lightnings  are  glancing, 
The  hoar-spray  is  dancing  — 
Away ! 

The  whirlwind  is  rolling. 
The  thunder  is  tolling, 
The  forest  is  swinging. 
The  minster-bells  ringing  — 
Come  away ! 

The  Earth  is  like  Ocean, 
Wreck-strewn  and  in  motion 
Bird,  beast,  man  and  worm 
Have  crept  out  of  the  storm  — 
Come  away ! 

II. 

"  Our  boat  has  one  sail, 
And  the  helmsman  is  pale  ;  — 


THE  FUGITIVES. 

A  bold  pilot  I  trow, 
Who  should  follow  us  now,"  — 
Shouted  He  — 

And  she  cried  :  "  Ply  the  oar ! 
Put  off  gaily  from  shore  !" 
As  she  spoke,  bolts  of  death 
Mix'd  with  hail  speck'd  their  patli 
O'er  the  sea. 

And  from  isle,  tower  and  rock, 
The  blue  beacon  cloud  broke. 
And  though  dumb  in  the  blast, 
The  red  cannon  flash'd  fast 
From  the  lee. 

III. 

"  And  fear'st  thou,  and  fear'st  thou  ? 
And  see'st  thou,  and  hear'st  thou  ? 
And  drive  we  not  free 
O'er  the  terrible  sea, 
land  thou?" 

One  boat-cloak  did  cover 
The  loved  and  the  lover  — 
Their  blood  beats  one  measure, 
They  murmur  proud  pleasure 
Soft  and  low  ;  — 

While  around  the  lash'd  Ocean, 
Like  mountains  in  motion. 
Is  withdrawn  and  uplifted. 
Sunk,  shatter'd  and  shifted, 
To  and  fro. 


311 


tilil  FRIENDSHIP  S    GIFT. 

IV. 

In  the  court  of  the  fortress, 
Beside  the  pale  portress, 
Like  a  blood-hound  well  beaten, 
The  bridegroom  stands,  eaten 
«  By  shame ; 

On  the  topmost  watch-turref, 
As  a  death-boding  spirit, 
Stands  the  gray  tyrant  father. 
To  his  voice  the  mad  weather 
Seems  tame ; 

And  with  curses  as  wild 
As  ere  clung  to  child, 
He  devotes  to  the  blast 
The  best,  loveliest,  and  last 
Of  his  name! 


(: 


J 


RETURN        CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO  ^^  1 98  Main  Stacks 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS. 

Renewls  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  caillng  642-3405. 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


UC'    •  '  ■-:: 


FORM  NO.  DD6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
BERKELEY  CA  94720-6000 


[vi64479 

Fife 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


% 

^sAr 

atrnrisix^m,. 


^M 


